


a little bit of sunshine

by Living_On_My_Own, oatrevolution



Series: take a chance with me [2]
Category: Bohemian Rhapsody (Movie 2018), Queen (Band)
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Depression, Drugs, Eventual Happy Ending, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, freddie is still an insecure bean, hiv/aids scare, paul is a horrible person, social media is still the bane of everyone's existence, the Munich era
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-26
Updated: 2021-01-26
Packaged: 2021-03-08 20:54:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 28
Words: 60,955
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27202778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Living_On_My_Own/pseuds/Living_On_My_Own, https://archiveofourown.org/users/oatrevolution/pseuds/oatrevolution
Summary: Nearly ten years on, the members of Queen have all the money and success they ever wanted, but past insecurities aren't so easily defeated.
Relationships: Brian May/Freddie Mercury, Freddie Mercury/Paul Prenter, John Deacon/Veronica Tetzlaff
Series: take a chance with me [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1985905
Comments: 127
Kudos: 82





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> We're back! And before you murder us, please note the tags and realize that at least one of us is a total sucker for happy endings. It will all work out in the end, we promise!

The beat thumps in the walls, the floor, Freddie’s bones. It’s fucking up the beat of his heart. He feels like he’s about to vibrate apart, fall to dust—or something else, he doesn’t know.

He has to lean against the stair rail for support. Just momentarily, that’s all. The vodka in his glass trembles violently, but that’s the fault of this  _ fucking _ music, which Freddie quite enjoyed several hours ago and now hates with every fiber of his being. He doesn’t want to  _ think _ , but he’s lost track of his legs and walking takes so much  _ concentration _ . What the fuck even  _ is _ this, he’s been walking for most of his life, there’s no reason to forget how now after a glass (or ten) of vodka, a few (or several) lines of coke, and whatever the hell’s in the punch tonight.

That’s what’s done him in. That fucking punch.

Freddie’s knees wobble dangerously, and he slides down the bannister to sit on the edge of a stair, balancing precariously. He grips one of the rails to stay upright and tips the rest of his vodka back.

More alcohol, that’s it. Hair of the dog. That’s how you beat hangovers, he’s sure he read that somewhere before. Never stop drinking. That seems like a good solution.

His phone buzzes in his back pocket, but he ignores it.

He doesn’t answer his phone these days.

And now he needs another drink.

Freddie heaves himself upright and manages to make it to the bar through sheer determination, dodging dancing couples in his living room and colliding with at least half of them. As soon as they see who it is,  _ they _ apologize to  _ him _ . He smiles, tries to play the gracious host, all the while edging away from them towards his Stolichnaya. He can’t do this while anything even remotely resembling sober.

At last, he reaches his own bar, and he’s pouring himself a generous glass of vodka when Paul finds him.

“There you are!” he says. “I was wondering where you’d gotten to. There are some more guests here you should say hello to.”

Freddie doesn’t much feel like talking to anyone. “But, darling,” he tries, “I’m  _ tired _ , I’ve been recording all day...”

“You promised you’d say hello, remember?” Paul takes the vodka from him and carefully hides it away again, where only the two of them can get to it. He knows what might happen if Freddie runs out of his favorite brand.

“I—” Freddie pauses, frowning. He doesn’t remember promising to say hello to anyone in particular, but Paul must be right. Freddie honestly doesn’t remember much that happens these days. “All right, darling, if you insist.”

Paul smiles, creasing his warm face, and takes Freddie to meet two people that Freddie instantly forgets. They’re German, he remembers that much, but that’s not surprising in Munich. Freddie’s used to meeting Germans; he’s even learned a couple of German phrases since coming here, though most of them aren’t much use in polite company.

“What a party,” Paul says when the two Germans have melted back into the crowd. “See, isn’t this what you needed? To have fun? You don’t have to dwell on  _ him _ anymore, Freddie. He cheated on you; forget him.”

Freddie looks down into his vodka.

_ Brian. _

He’s managed to forget for a little while the deep sorrow that fills him when he thinks of Brian ( _ Brian _ ). He doesn’t want to think about him anymore, to relive over and over again the horrible gnawing pain. The one that makes him drink, that makes him take the drugs Paul happily hands over. 

Brian must be  _ home _ , or at least what used to be their home. Is he as sad as Freddie is? Is he as miserable? Does he want to disappear as much as Freddie does? How he wants to be in Brian’s arms again, to be told how loved he is, even if it isn’t true. How he wants to have a home. 

Maybe Brian isn’t even thinking about him. Maybe he’s having fun with someone else, with a  _ girl.  _ Someone who could start a family with him, someone who could properly satisfy him, someone who would deserve all the love Brian gives so selflessly. 

There’s no air to breathe, not in the middle of so many people when all he wants is one other person with him. He’s aware he’s the one who ruined it, the one who ended things. But he did it to protect himself, to protect himself from the heartbreak that was to come. 

Freddie never  _ ever _ thought Brian could endure him for so long.  _ Almost ten years _ . He did it, somehow, but there was no way they’d stay together much longer. They’re getting older and older, and soon Brian would want a family, kids,  _ not cats _ . Brian would want someone better that he could spend the rest of his life with. 

It was the best decision to break up, to let Brian live his life, to let him truly be happy. No more pretending to be happy with Freddie. It would be cruel to hold him back, to keep him from what he wants more than anything—a family, a wife, a  _ life _ . Freddie just preferred to break up before Brian could. It would only end up hurting more, especially if it’d come on the heels of Brian meeting someone. A  _ girl _ that Brian wants more than him. 

He doesn’t look up at Paul, because he wants to cry. But he’s not  _ young _ anymore, he doesn’t cry in front of people like a baby these days. At least, he forces himself not to. He tries to hold back the tears for his room, alone, when all the lights are off and everyone else in the house is asleep. He often gets angry at himself for being so sensitive, but no amount of rage can burn the tears away. 

“You’re right,” he says, and the words sound so distant and unreal to his own ears. “I should just forget him.”

He doesn’t mean it, not really. How could he ever forget Brian?

Paul always knows what he’s thinking, and he turns to him now, eyes concerned. “Hey, don’t think like that,” he says, taking Freddie’s wrists in his hands and squeezing. “He wanted  _ kids _ , Freddie, there’s no way he would have stayed with you for much longer. You did the right thing, protecting yourself.”

Freddie nods. He  _ does _ know this, but it still hurts. Brian told him that he loved him for so many years—how can he ever trust those words again?

He feels traitorous tears pricking at the corners of his eyes, and slams back the vodka, the burn in his throat distracting him. No, he  _ refuses _ to cry. He’s cried enough.

“I’ll get you another one,” Paul says, taking the glass from him. “Do you need a pick-me-up?” And Freddie knows that by that, Paul means one of his little pills, the ones that float him away from his own body, until nothing can hurt him.

“If you have any on you, darling,” Freddie says.

“I’ll bring one by with the vodka,” Paul promises. He gestures toward the sitting room with his free hand. “I think I saw Winnie and Barbara going that way, if you want to go talk to them? They’re so kind to come to all of your parties, Freddie. You should be a good host, go and thank them.”

Paul’s right—Paul’s always right. Freddie wishes he had vodka to sustain him through more talking, more  _ partying _ , when all he wants to do is curl up in bed and cry himself to sleep, but he won’t have that until Paul gets back with a refill. So he meanders into the sitting room on wobbly legs, and finds Winnie and Barbara standing together by the window, laughing. Somehow, Barbara can always get the dour Winnie to crack a smile; Freddie has never quite mastered the art.

“Darlings!” he says, and presses a kiss to both of their cheeks. It’s what’s expected from Freddie Mercury—exuberance, over-the-top mannerisms, effusive hand gestures. He’s long since stopped trying to avoid this persona and instead embraced it, even though the press and social media have never entirely gotten on board.  _ Fuck them. Fuck them all. _

“Freddie!” Barbara says. She hugs him tightly, pressing her perfumed cheek to his. “Oh, don’t  _ you _ look like you’re having a good time. Winnie,” she says, and presumably repeats what she just said in German.

Winnie nods, looking Freddie over with interest, and replies, also in German. Barbara giggles.

“He says you look good enough to eat,” she translates, and giggles again.

“Oh, darling, I’m truly flattered,” Freddie lies, batting Winnie’s burly forearm. He knows he looks horrible, just as ugly as he’s always been, and he’s not in the mood for false compliments. “But I’m afraid I’m off the menu.”

Winnie looks slightly disappointed when Barbara translates—but only slightly. They go through this ritual at least once a week, and Freddie’s pretty sure it must be an elaborate joke. He’s not sure what Winnie would do if Freddie actually said yes. Laugh at the buck-toothed upstart, probably.

Paul reappears at Freddie’s shoulder and hands him his vodka and a small pill, tucked securely into his palm. Freddie knocks them both back without hesitation, hoping that the pill will make him forget. He doesn’t want to remember tonight.

His phone buzzes in his pocket again, and Freddie takes it out without thinking, glancing down at the screen.

_ Incoming Call: Roger _

Freddie’s entire chest cavity freezes solid; his heart lurches. Quickly, he shoves his phone back in his pocket, as though that will erase what he’s seen, but it’s too late. Now he’s thinking about it again—having to tell his best friends about the solo album. That he was leaving. That Queen might be over.

He still remembers Roger’s shock, John’s set expression. Brian, sitting on the far end of the couch, hadn’t said a single word, his face hidden by his hair.

Freddie hadn’t really wanted Brian to come, but Paul had insisted.

“You have to stand up to him,” he’d said. “You have to stand up to all of them, Freddie. You’re better off without them anyway.”

Freddie still hasn’t bothered to correct Paul—it’s the other way around. Now that he’s gone, Roger, John, and Brian (oh god,  _ Brian _ ) are the ones who are better off.

He can’t  _ think _ about this. He thought the pill was supposed to  _ stop _ the thinking.

He slips away from Paul, Barbara, and Winnie, blinking back hot tears with all he has. On his way out of the room, he passes Phoebe and Joe, standing together in the corner, who immediately pretend they haven’t been watching him all night with their usual concerned expressions. Always fucking  _ worrying _ about him, like he can’t handle himself.

The momentary anger drives him up the stairs and to his bedroom door before the tears really start threatening to fall. He can do this—he’ll just lock himself up in his room for a little while, and when he’s feeling a bit better, he’ll come out and be the host he should be. But he  _ can’t _ , he can’t right now, not without crying in front of everyone in his house.

He pushes the door open, stumbling inside, and finds that he’s too late—the room is already occupied by two men in various states of undress, clutching at each other on  _ Freddie’s _ bed. For a moment, he can do nothing but stare in amazement.

Finally, one of the couple finally notices him—sort of, anyway. He doesn’t seem to realize that it’s Freddie, but to be fair, he’s not actually really  _ looking _ at him. “Hey, dude, you mind fucking off?” he yells, and his partner groans in agreement.

Hot anger comes up into Freddie’s throat, because he’s so tired, and he just wants to cry and he wants to be alone. But no one will let him do that. Is it so much to  _ fucking _ ask? 

But Paul will be disappointed in him if he gets angry, if he throws a tantrum  _ like a small child screaming because he hasn’t been given what he wants.  _ It does sound like Paul is saying this in his head. He told him to be a good host, not to shout at other people for having some fun. 

He decides to smile at them and apologize, not even bothering to tell them who the fuck he is. He’ll just endure the tears in the corner of his eyes for a few more hours. He would have gone to the toilet instead, but it’s clear there are people in there too. 

At least now Paul will be proud of him, and he’ll provide more pills that make him forget. At least, they do some nights, when they work properly.

So instead he turns around and goes back to the party, like the good host he is, and tries to forget about his broken heart—at least until the pill can carry him away from all of this into blissful blank nothingness.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The morning after the party.

Morning light lances through the window and straight into Freddie’s brain. That’s what it feels like, anyway, bringing him to sudden awareness. His head throbs and his mouth is dry and horrible, and he’s twisted up on something leather that doesn’t feel like his bed. He has a crick in his neck something awful.

Wincing, raising one clumsy hand to shield himself from the light, Freddie opens his eyes.

He’s in the sitting room, lying on one of the couches—they’re dreadfully uncomfortable, more for show than anything else, really, no wonder he feels like he’s been run over by a car. He still has all of his clothes on, thank Christ. The low glass-topped table in front of him is littered with empty glasses and powdery remains of cocaine, the ghosts of where lines used to be.

Slowly, painfully, he rolls onto his back and stares sightlessly at the ceiling for a few minutes. The house is very quiet around him—either it’s very early or all the guests got cleared out somehow last night. He can’t remember and there’s no clock in here.

The uncomfortable lump in his back pocket reminds him. He digs out his phone and clicks it on to check the time—5:46 in the morning. Fuck.

Also on the screen are the words:

**_Roger_ **

_New voicemail_

**_Roger_ **

_5 missed calls_

Oh, _fuck_.

Freddie drops his phone onto his stomach, grimacing at nothing. He’d hoped that Roger would have gotten the point, after Freddie didn’t return his calls for months on end, but he still doesn’t stop—it’s a weekly ritual, now.

Roger calls and Freddie doesn’t answer. Roger calls again, and Freddie still doesn’t answer. Eventually, Roger leaves a voicemail, which Freddie doesn’t listen to. And then, the next week, they do it all over again.

Why can’t Roger _understand?_ Why does he have to keep _picking_ at things like this? Freddie thought he made himself perfectly clear, thank you very much—he was leaving. Going solo, at least for the foreseeable future. Moving house, going to a different _country_ . Do not _fucking_ disturb.

But Roger, at least, hasn’t gotten the picture. Or maybe—and this is more likely—he’s calling Freddie up to yell at him, to tell him off for stringing them all along for so long. Holding them back for all those years before he finally managed to man up enough to fuck off. He’s probably furious, and Freddie can’t bear to be the one Roger’s angry at. He _can’t_. Roger’s never been angry with him before, not like this. Not over something so serious.

And besides, if he listens to Roger’s voice—if he hears him again, or John, or—or even Brian ( _Brian_ )—

He’s not strong enough to stay away.

And now there are _fucking_ tears again.

Furious with himself, Freddie sits up, so suddenly his head spins, and throws his phone, hard, at the wall. It hits with a very satisfying _crunch_ , clattering to the floor with its screen cracked. He’s dinged the wall as well, he can see now. For about five seconds, he’s pleased with himself, euphoric in the aftermath of lashing out.

Then the shame sets in—the shame of having thrown a tantrum like a fucking child. Freddie rubs his face with both hands, then gets up and wobbles over to the phone, his legs dangerously watery, his head throbbing as though it’s about to burst. It’s a good thing he didn’t eat anything last night; he’s horribly nauseous. He bends down to pick up the phone, and it lights up just like usual. Somehow, he hasn’t destroyed it.

With a sigh, he goes into his messages and deletes Roger’s voicemail properly, like an adult should. Only then, slinking back to the couch, does he open up Twitter.

It’s become a habit to go on social media in the morning. It’s the first thing he does in the morning these days, even before getting out of bed or flipping through the newspaper. He does read new comments at night sometimes, too, when he’s feeling lonely enough—which is most nights. 

He goes through to his profile, and new comments and posts about him are already there. One thread in particular catches his eye:

_Is anyone even excited about @FreddieMercury’s first solo album coming out? 40 mins of just THAT??_ 😱

_lol are we even sure its ever gonna be released? i herd he’s spent all the $$ on hookers & blow _

_Wouldn’t surprise me, tbh. Didn’t he cheat on @BrianMay with prostitutes & that’s why @QueenOfficial broke up?? _

_How could he ever cheat on such a wonderful man_ 😡😡😡

_Nah, I bet May cheated on Mercury. I mean, just look at him, no amount of money is worth that lmao_ 😂😂

Comments _don’t_ hurt less than they ever did before. They never stop hurting. Over all these years, the pain has never stopped coming when he reads what people think of him. What he is. But he’s become better at hiding the effect they have on him. He’s become good at holding the tears in, at putting on a bright smile and telling people, _Everything’s fine, darling!_

At least, when Brian was there, it hurt less. He forced himself to believe everything Brian said about him, he forced himself to believe that he was worth so much more than what all those people think. But now there’s no Brian to please, no one to see that he accepts who he is.

They’re all right anyway; he isn’t worth anything. He never has been, not even when he was with Brian. 

Brian’s the only one that hasn’t tried to call. John tried a few times and Roger still does, but not Brian. He probably hates Freddie so much that he doesn’t even want to hear his voice. Maybe even the image of Freddie in Brian’s mind is only a burden, a dirty memory that he needs to get rid of. That’s probably also how John and Roger think of him. They’re just less kind than Brian, they wouldn’t be afraid to tell Freddie to his face. 

He’s promised himself he wouldn’t cry anymore, that this childish attitude he has would be gone. So, when he feels burning tears at the corner of his eyes, he blinks them back rapidly, scared someone will enter the room and see him. They’d find him ridiculous, just as he finds himself ridiculous. 

There are so many more comments about him, but it’s enough for today, he wouldn’t want to really start crying. He closes his phone with a click and the screen turns black. He can see himself through the large cracks on the screen. He tilts his head to see another angle of his face. No, it’s not better this way. He’s _broken_ —he’s always been broken. He has cracks so deep he’s not surprised most people can see them.

He puts his phone back on the couch, not able to bear seeing himself for too long. Poor Paul, he really has to look at him everyday. He’s too kind to say anything, to state the obvious. Everyone is. Poor Brian too, really, he had to endure him for so many years. Not just how he looks, but how he acts. How did he ever want to kiss him, to touch him? 

_Worth nothing_ , that’s all he can think when he looks at himself. 

Fuck, he needs another drink.

He’s nursing his second glass of vodka when Paul turns up, unfairly bright and chipper for this time of morning. Just looking at him makes Freddie’s head hurt.

“There you are, Freddie!” he says, and he pitches his voice just so, so it doesn’t aggravate Freddie’s hangover unnecessarily. “I was looking for you upstairs. Did you sleep down here?”

Freddie shrugs and necks his drink. “I need a new mobile,” he says, tipping his empty glass towards his cracked phone, still sitting on the couch cushion beside him.

“Of course,” Paul says smoothly. “I can do that.” He feels Freddie’s head with the back of his hand, and Freddie lets him. “How are you feeling? Not too poorly?”

“I’m all right, darling.” This isn’t true, but he has to try. For Paul. Paul’s always helping him be more perfect, more in control. He would be so disappointed if Freddie complained now.

“Then why don’t we stop by the studio?” Paul says, gently cajoling. “We have the time reserved. You don’t want to let everyone down, do you? They’ll be waiting for you.”

Freddie doesn’t want to go to the studio, not really— _not without the boys_ —but Paul’s done so much for him, and he looks so hopeful. “Can I at least change first?” Freddie asks. “I feel disgusting, darling.”

“Take a shower if you like,” Paul says. “I’ll call and let them know we’re coming, all right?”

All the guests must have been sent away, because Freddie’s bedroom and bathroom are empty. He peels off last night’s clothes, leaving them scattered across the room, and even though he’d rather have a long soak, he steps into the shower, like Paul suggested. There will be people waiting, after all—all waiting on _him_.

Waiting, watching, whispering. He _hates_ studio time, really truly hates it, the way they all talk about him behind his back—wondering whether Queen is really over, if he’s lost it, if he really cheated on Brian.

Anger licks up his spine, sudden and hot. He doesn’t have to put up with this. He’s a fucking _star_ —he’ll record when he wants to record, and no sooner. They can wait all fucking day. He doesn’t have to show up if he doesn’t want to.

Freddie steps out of the shower, quickly drying his hair and knotting the towel around his waist. He slams out of his bedroom and shrieks, “ _Paul!_ ”

Paul appears at a run, eyes wide with confusion. “Freddie?” He looks him over, eyes lingering on the towel. “What’s the matter?”

“I’m not going to the studio,” Freddie says imperiously. “Tell them all to fuck off back home if they like. I’m not going in.”

For a moment, Paul doesn’t say or do anything; then, just as Freddie’s turning to go back into his bedroom, he moves forward to take his wrist, jerking him back.

“Are you sure that’s the best idea, Freddie?” he asks, very calmly.

Freddie twists his arm in Paul’s grip, but he won’t budge. “Let me _go_ , darling,” he says—almost begs—his confidence is starting to slip.

“A lot of people have put a lot of money into this album, Freddie,” Paul says. He’s not holding Freddie tightly enough to bruise, but he certainly can’t get free. “Do you understand how disappointed they’ll be if it’s not delivered on time?”

“Darling—”

“The recording company has been very indulgent so far, Freddie. How long do you think they’ll put up with you if you start becoming a liability?” Paul sighs, disappointed, concerned. “I’m just trying to warn you of what might happen, Freddie. I care about you and I want you to be successful.”

“But, darling, I’m so _tired_ ,” Freddie tries, weakly. “Can’t I just—”

“You have to be very careful, Freddie, more than other artists do.” Paul pulls him close, strokes his face. Freddie goes very still, fighting to keep Brian out of his mind, to _not_ remember how Brian would do this same thing, but with soft, feather-light fingertips. “Do you really think someone like _you_ could make it on his own?”

Freddie shakes his head, eyes falling to the ground. Paul always knows the right thing to say to him, to take him back to earth. He’s right, he’s _always_ right. He can’t just do what he wants. He’s not as good as so many other artists; he can’t let himself take a break, act too bold, or people will stop wanting to work with him. He needs to keep working, keep obeying. Then they’ll want him, even if he doesn’t sing as well as others. Even if his music isn’t as good as others’ music is. Even if they all know it’s not as good as Queen’s.

Paul’s hand is cold on his cheek, but it’s the closest to love anyone will ever give him from now on. He’ll never get to have what he had with Brian again, he knows it. It was only a dream. Brian was just too kind for what he really deserves, he gave more than what anyone else would give him. He _never_ deserved the love Brian gave him. 

“Okay,” he tells Paul quietly, shame filling him for being so stupid. He shouldn’t act like that, it’ll just bring him problems. And it disappoints Paul. Freddie can see it in his eyes, at least when he gets the courage to look up and meet them. “Thank you,” he says, honestly. He doesn’t know what he’d do without Paul. 

“I’ll always be there for you, Freddie,” Paul says, a smile forming on his face. He’s not so disappointed now. He lets go of his wrist, finally; it’s slightly sore, but there’s no other way Paul could make him listen. It’s better this way. “Come on, go put on some clothes. I’ll be waiting for you downstairs.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As you can see, we are still attempting to write fake mean internet comments. We don't think either of us has a future as a troll.
> 
> On the other hand, you guys leave lovely comments and kudos for us, because you are (as always) fabulous! Thank you so much for reading and we'll see you next time~


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brian needs a friend.

The world is grey.

Brian stares at himself listlessly in the mirror as the makeup assistant flutters around him, doing her best to conceal the dark circles under his eyes. She’s already done her best to bring some color to his sallow cheeks, to prevent them looking so hollow, but his eyes are proving harder to manage. He’s exhausted, worn thin, and he looks it.

Jim Beach, seated in the corner with a magazine, watches the process silently. He flicks the pages with his thumb, slowly—the slightest of nervous tics.

“I’m sorry, honey,” the makeup lady says, coming at him again with a little cotton ball. She dabs at the thin skin under his eyes, gently. “This is taking longer than it usually does.”

“It’s fine,” Brian says. His heart aches.  _ Honey.  _ It’s all so close to what he longs to hear, and yet so far—different word, different voice.  _ Brian, darling! _

At last, the woman steps back, scrutinizing him carefully. “There, that’s better, isn’t it?”

Brian looks at himself, not really caring. He does look better, healthier. Like he used to before…

“Thank you, Linda,” Miami says, setting aside his magazine.

“No problem!” the woman—Linda—says cheerfully. “They’ll come get you when you’re about to go on, okay?”

“Okay,” Brian echoes, and Linda bustles off, taking her kit with her. He thinks he remembers her saying something about having to do the other guest too. Make them ready for the cameras. It’s like getting ready to go on stage—and he stops that thought right there, before it swallows him up.

When they’re alone, Jim leans forward, placing his elbows on his knees and lacing his hands together. “How are you feeling?”

“Fine,” Brian says automatically. “I’m fine.”

Miami, kindly, doesn’t dispute this. “You’ll probably be asked about it, you know. The breakup. Queen.”

Brian can’t stand to meet his own eyes for one second longer and turns away, ducking his head. “I know. I can handle it.”

“If you’re sure,” Miami says. He’s the one who called Brian up about this opportunity, talked him through the finer points. Warned him about the hazards. But there’s good to be done here-—animal rights to be promoted—and it’s the first time since it happened that Brian’s felt anything like interest. “You’ll remember the answers, right?”

“It was mutual,” Brian recites, trying to keep the hollow pain out of his voice. “Queen’s not breaking up, we’re taking a break.”

“Good.” With a sigh, Jim leans back into his chair. “You’ll do fine, Brian.”

Not too long afterwards, there’s a knock at the door, and one of the producers pokes her head in. She has a clipboard clutched to her chest. “Mr. May? You’re on in ten. Follow me, please.”

Brian unfolds himself from his chair. He glances at Jim, just briefly, and Jim gives him a small, encouraging smile.

He follows the producer through several small, cramped hallways, finally coming to a halt just off the filming stage. He can hear the host doing his opening routine and the crowd laughing, and just like that he’s nervous. He hasn’t been in front of a crowd like this in what feels like years.

“Well, they certainly seem excited, don’t they?”

Brian turns to see a young woman standing just beside him, her eyes wide and curious. She’s vaguely familiar and accompanied by a clipboard-toting producer of her own. She must be the other special guest—Anita something. An actress, he remembers Jim telling him.

“Have you ever done one of these before?” she asks him, tilting her chin up so she can meet his eyes. She seems totally unafraid.

“Not in a while,” Brian says.  _ Not by myself. _

“Anita Dobson,” she says, sticking out a hand. “You must be Brian May. I recognize the hair.”

He takes her hand, gingerly, and shakes it. “Er, nice to meet you.”

“It’ll be lovely to talk to you about the badgers,” she says brightly. “Aren’t they just the cutest things?”

And that’s when Brian’s producer is at his side, hissing, “Go go go!”

Brian sends a small smile at Anita before getting on the stage. There’s cameras everywhere and it makes his stomach churn a bit. He’s not used to this anymore. It’s so much better when he’s not on his own. If only Roger or John could be here with him—but they haven’t really spoken since Freddie left.

_ Freddie. _

After a few thank you’s to the crowd, he sits on the chair beside the interviewer’s. The way he faces him makes him remember that day, the day he told Freddie he loved him for the first time. That interviewer was the worst and Brian still can’t believe he had the balls to ask the question he asked Freddie. 

Was all of this love worth it for all the pain it caused? It was, of course it was. He got to have Freddie for years, he had the privilege to hold the man in his arms, to be the one to kiss him, the only one to love him. He’s never felt so lucky, even as it ended. 

“Thank you for being here, Brian, as you can see, the public is very happy to have you in here!” The host interrupts his thoughts with his energetic words. He smiles, and Brian can’t help thinking about Freddie’s smile. He’ll miss it. A lot. 

“I’m happy to be here and very honoured to have been invited,” Brian says, trying to sound as joyous as can be. There’s still a lump in his throat when he talks; Freddie should be there, holding his hand. 

“Well, Brian, we all know you’re here to talk about badger rights—” the crowd laughs “—but I think we’d like to know the answers to some more pressing questions first,” he says, obviously pleased with the opportunity to get the answers first. It’s the first time Brian’s consented to an interview since the breakup, after all. “What’s going on with the band right now? Can we ever expect a new album? And what exactly happened between Freddie Mercury and you?” 

The number of questions is overwhelming. Each question is too overwhelming. Oh _ Freddie _ , does he think of him as much as Brian thinks of him? Brian opens his mouth, ready to answer, just like Miami told him to, though it takes a few seconds before any sound comes out of his mouth. 

“We decided as a band that it would be best to take a break. We haven’t broken up, so there will be a new album, just not right now.” His voice gets stuck when he thinks about the next question to answer. “As for the situation between Freddie and me, I prefer to not comment,” Brian says. He does his best to keep his face straight, to not show any emotion. It’s better this way. 

He’s become good at holding in all the feelings. Freddie was the only one that got him to talk, to open up. He can’t imagine ever opening up to someone else, not in the same way. 

The host looks disappointed for half a second before he rallies. “As much as we expected!” he says. “Now, let’s get down to business, Brian. Why are you really here today?”

“I’m here today because the culling of badgers is wrong and immoral,” Brian says, his voice gaining strength and passion with each word he speaks. He feels like he comes back to life, just a little bit, for just a little while, while he’s on the subject. He can’t forget about Freddie—he can never forget about Freddie—but for a while the pain is more distant.

Not long afterwards, the host brings Anita onto the stage too, and she sits gracefully in the chair set next to Brian’s. She smiles at him, at both of them, and, when asked, ably backs up Brian’s arguments with well-reasoned ones of her own. Brian, who’s used to arguing on his own, is impressed and grateful. She plays well with the crowd, getting them to laugh and cheer, something he’s never been good at.

“Unfortunately, that’s all we have time for today,” the host says after ten minutes or so have passed. “Everyone, give a big round of applause to Brian May and Anita Dobson!”

The people in the studio cheer, clapping dutifully, and Brian mimics Anita’s wave to the camera, smiling self-consciously. The moment the cameras have turned off, their respective producers are hurrying onto the stage to hustle them off, while the stage is readied for the next act.

Miami is still reading his magazine when Brian gets back—or pretending to. The TV on the wall is on the correct station, so he’s been watching the show. “Not bad,” he comments, flipping the page. “Good job sticking to the script.” He looks at Brian shrewdly. “You okay?”

“I’m fine,” Brian says again. Now that he’s back here, in the dressing room, the badger-influenced positive feelings are fading, and he’s back to where he started: grey and listless and lonely.

Linda comes back with makeup remover, which Brian manages to persuade her to let him use himself, and he’s just wiping the last of the concealer away when there’s a knock at the door. Before Miami can answer it, it’s pushed open, and Anita pops her head in.

“Hey,” she says brightly. “I’m on my way out. I just wanted to say thanks for being such a great supporter of the cause.”

“You too,” Brian says, and means it.

She smiles, her eyes crinkling up. “Let’s get together sometime, yeah? Two heads are better than one. I’ll have my manager get in contact with yours.” She waves and, before he can think to protest, ducks back out, shutting the door behind her.

(As she leaves, Anita thinks back to the questions she overheard from her position just offstage, and the dark circles under Brian’s eyes. He hid it well, but he’s hurting, she can tell.

If there’s anyone who could use a friend, it’s Brian May.)

  
  


Back home, alone in the house he and Freddie shared, Brian opens his Twitter app. He has a secret account that he uses to keep an eye on Freddie’s—Freddie blocked his main one months ago—and that’s what he logs into now. He navigates to Freddie’s page, a lump forming in his throat.

There’s a picture right at the top of the feed—some paparazzi must have snagged it—Freddie outside of a nightclub, leaning on Paul Prenter, clearly so drunk he can barely stand.  _ “working hard” lmao _ is the associated comment.

_ how could @BrianMay ever be with someone like this?? _

_ He doesn’t seem to care much about their breakup, did you watch him on Blake’s show earlier? _

_ He’s probably glad to be rid of this asshole _

_ I herd he cheated _

_ Which one? May or Mercury? _

_ both lol no way mercury hasn’t been fucked by every guy in that club _

_ Can you blame May for wanting something better??? _

No, there’s no one better than Freddie, no one that is as perfect as him. As beautiful, as kind, as deserving of love. 

Brian just can’t help forgetting for a moment about his own pain. He can’t help thinking about Freddie, about what he must be thinking while reading this. He’s probably reading the comments, he always does. He always worries too much, dwells too much on what others think of him. 

Brian tried making him believe in his own worth for so long, and he seemed to believe him a bit more everyday. But now, Brian isn’t with him to tell him how fantastic he is. Does he believe it anymore? Maybe he does—maybe that’s why he left. Maybe he realized he’s better than scattered, gloomy Brian. 

He keeps himself from commenting something in response. Freddie doesn’t want to hear from him, not even from his dummy account; he doesn’t need to be defended, he said so himself. 

Brian still doesn’t  _ get it _ , he doesn’t get what happened. Did he do something? What made Freddie leave him? What made Freddie leave  _ everything _ to start over? What made him leave his family for an album that won’t make him happy, for a man that doesn’t  _ care _ about him? 

It’s selfish, but Brian just knows—he knows this isn’t what will make Freddie happy. Maybe he isn’t what makes Freddie happy either, and he’s working on accepting that. But he knows that Paul will never give him all he needs, and he’ll  _ never _ give him the love he deserves. 

He doesn’t understand, doesn’t understand what pushed Freddie to throw away all this. He used to say that he was happier than ever. Why did it change?

Anger boils in him and, in a fit of rage, Brian throws his phone on the couch. It bounces back, but not enough to fall on the floor and crack. It’s not as satisfactory as Brian thought it’d be. 

He takes his head in his hands, the anger fading away, quickly replaced by tears. 

All he wants is Freddie back. His love, his light, his  _ life _ . Without him, the greyness covers everything. He’s suffocating.

Where did he go so wrong?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Badgers are people too!
> 
> As ever, thank you all for being so amazing! We hope you enjoyed and we'll see you next time~


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Studio time doesn't go as planned, and some comments are more disturbing than others.

The ride to the studio isn’t long, all things considered, but by the time they get there, Freddie is wishing he hadn’t come after all. His head still hurts, despite the pills Paul’s given him and the alcohol he’s consumed and the sunglasses he won’t take off, and he just wants to crawl into a real bed and hide under the covers for a few hours.

He rubs his wrist absently, the wrist Paul had grabbed; it isn’t bruised but it’s sore. Paul has wrapped his fingers around it a few more times on the ride, not hard, just to direct his attention to this or that, but it does make it hard to forget the slight ache.

Paul won’t be happy if he turns the car around now, not after he promised to record today. Not after they came all this way. Paul works so hard to help him, surely he can put in an hour or so? It doesn’t have to be long, just long enough that he can justify having people stand around a studio all day while he’s only there briefly.

There are a handful of hopeful paparazzi outside the doors, waiting with cameras raised, and Paul takes Freddie’s arm again. “Come on,” he says comfortingly. “Just walk straight past them. No talking. Ignore whatever they say.”

“Of course, darling,” Freddie mumbles. They’re the same instructions as every time they come here—he’s used to it by now, keeping his head down, his eyes covered with sunglasses, and his mouth shut.

Paul squeezes his wrist reassuringly and opens the car door, holding it open for him as he steps out. The paparazzi are immediately all over them, calling and shouting to be heard over each other, their cameras shoved in his face.

“Freddie! Freddie, over here!”

“Freddie, what do you think of Brian’s rumored appearance on Late Night Blake tonight?”

“Freddie, how many times did you cheat on Brian May?”

Paul’s hand presses firmly to the middle of his back, propelling him forward, and in another moment Freddie’s through the doors of the studio. The security guard steps out to keep the baying crowd at bay.

“That’s it, take a breath,” Paul says. “You’re all right, Freddie.”

It’s only then that Freddie realizes he has his hands clenched so tightly into fists that his nails are digging into his palms. He forces his grip to loosen.

“They’ve got the wrong end of the stick, as usual,” Paul’s saying. “They should be asking  _ him _ who he cheated on  _ you _ with. I could set up an interview for you, if you want.”

Freddie shakes his head, violently. “No,” he says. “ _ Fuck _ no. I’m not talking to those fucking vultures.” He’s especially not going to talk to them about Brian—about  _ him and Brian _ —but he keeps that part to himself.

Even though the paparazzi are successfully contained outside, Freddie still feels cornered when they reach the studio. Everyone  _ stares _ at him here—they’re all waiting for him to tell them what to do, and he’s sure they’re whispering about him behind his back.

“Come on, stop fucking staring at me. Let’s start this thing,” Freddie snaps. He’s really not in the mood to be there. At least not on his own. He’s not alone, but it does feel like it. Well there’s Paul, but he’s not Brian (  _ Brian  _ ), he’s not Roger, he’s not John. 

He doesn’t feel like he belongs in this place, what is he doing here? Why does he endure all of this? Maybe he should just stop all of this, go back to London—no, he can’t be weak like that. It’s too late, it’s not like the boys would  _ ever _ want him back. He can’t begin to imagine what they’d do if he came to see them. 

He has people, people that will make exactly the music he wants. He won’t have John’s criticisms, Roger’s tantrums (not bad ones), he won’t have Brian’s looks. He won’t have Brian’s touches. He won’t have Brian’s approving smiles. He won’t have Brian, not ever again. 

When he plays the piano, his wrist aches a little bit; it’s slightly red. It’s fine, it’ll pass. Nothing feels right,  _ nothing _ feels right. Didn’t he have great melodies a few days ago? Nothing feels as if it fits, nothing feels good enough. His fingers don’t dance on the notes instinctively enough. He isn’t playing like he used to—with Brian sitting beside him—

“Okay, fuck the piano,” he grumbles, feeling annoyance growing in him. Nothing is good enough, not without the boys with him. He gets up, does his best to ignore the stares, the wide eyes, people scared to be caught whispering in another’s ear. He’s really a joke—to  _ everyone _ . 

He wasn’t to be one to Brian, or Roger, or Deaky. Or at least it didn’t seem like it. He probably is now. 

“Have you got a fucking problem?” he asks with a sarcastic laugh, exhaustion making him almost delirious. He wants to get out of here, he needs to get out of here. He’s so tired, even mentally. He wants to be home.  _ Home _ , in London,  _ home _ , in Brian’s arms. 

People shake their heads, trying not to anger him. Is he really that menacing? That much of an asshole?

“Great,” he whispers, getting ready to record some lyrics, for whatever song he’s recording right now, which one even is it? God his head  _ hurts _ . What are the lyrics to this one again? What’s the name of the song?

Oh yeah— _ Always On My Own _ —pretty accurate.

But when he steps up to the microphone, his mind is blank. He can’t remember any of the words—they’re just gone. God, he’s so mortified he could cry, and a tiny part of him is grateful he still has the fucking sunglasses—even as the rest of him explodes.

“For  _ fuck’s _ sake!” he screams, seizing the nearest small object—someone’s clamshell hand mirror—and throwing it with as much force as he can muster. It clatters off the wall and falls harmlessly to the ground without breaking, and he’s abruptly that much more furious, like if it had only shattered the anger within him would have crumbled with it.

Paul rushes into the recording booth, concern written all over his face. “What is it, Freddie?” he asks, reaching for him, and Freddie backs away. If Paul gets a hand on him he’ll force him to calm down, and Freddie doesn’t want to be calm right now.

“I can’t  _ fucking _ record like this!”

“Okay, okay,” Paul says, soothingly. “What’s the problem? You don’t like the microphone, is that it?”

“It’s this whole fucking place!” Freddie rages, continuing to avoid Paul’s hands. He’s aware that everyone is staring, that the people at the control booth are whispering to each other, but he can’t  _ stop. _ “I can’t fucking  _ focus _ here, I fucking hate it!”

“Freddie—”

“I don’t want fucking  _ excuses, Paul! _ ” His voice is straining, now, he’s screaming so loudly. He can feel the ghosts of Roger, John, and Brian, exactly where they’d be in this room with him, and he can’t  _ stand it _ , he has to get  _ out _ . “I’m  _ done, _ ” he declares wildly. “I’m fucking  _ out _ ,  _ fuck _ this.” He ducks around Paul and slams out of the recording booth, storming past the frozen people in the control room. None of them dare meet his eyes.

But he stalls out in the foyer, trapped between the paparazzi outside and the whispering employees behind. His anger is starting to die down and the tears are threatening again. Freddie crosses his arms, waiting for Paul impatiently, tapping his foot. His head hurts worse than ever.

Paul appears, finally, maybe ten minutes later, walking fast, and he’s  _ not _ happy. To most people he’d probably seem like he usually is, but Freddie knows that look in his eyes.

“There you are,” Paul says, and this time when he reaches for Freddie’s arm Freddie has nowhere to run to and no energy to try. “We’ll talk in the car,” he says, quietly, for Freddie’s ears alone.

They have to run the gamut of paparazzi again—more of them, this time; word must have spread—but Paul gets Freddie safely in the car before joining him in the back.

“Freddie,” he says calmly, as they pull away from the curb, “what was that back there?”

Freddie looks away, out the window at the passing city. “I can’t fucking work like that,” he says, sullen.

“You  _ can _ work like that,” Paul says. “You  _ have _ worked like that. Do you even realize how much damage you did to your reputation just now? It will always be harder for you in this business and you’ve just made it that much more difficult. Do you understand how much smoothing over I had to do after you left like a child throwing a tantrum?”

Freddie doesn’t answer; he can’t. He’s swallowing back tears. After a moment, he’s able to force out, “I—I didn’t mean to, darling.”

Paul’s voice softens. “I know you didn’t, Freddie, but the damage has been done, hasn’t it? I have a lot of work ahead of me, trying to clean up your mess.”

“I know,” Freddie says miserably. The anger is completely gone now, replaced with exhaustion and something almost like grief. “You’re so good to me, darling. I don’t know how to make it up to you.”

Paul has some ideas—he always does. Even after all these months, it still feels like cheating on Brian, like all those horrible commenters are right about him, but Freddie’s so  _ lonely _ , and his bed is so cold, and at least when Paul is there he has someone to cling to. For a little while at least.

He can even forget, in the heat of the moment, all about Brian—something he always feels awful about later—and just  _ be _ , panting and gasping and living only for Paul on top of him.

“Close your mouth, Freddie,” Paul reminds him, pressing at the underside of his chin with a thumb.

He does as he’s told, flushing at his forgetfulness, and tries to bite down on his lip in a way that won’t show off his teeth. If he can’t control himself, he can always cover his mouth with his hand; he’s done that before.

It’s always better than a pillow on his face or paper bag, both things Paul has threatened him with, exasperated, when he’s too caught up in himself to remember that he’s supposed to be making this  _ good _ for Paul, and that includes hiding his ugly overbite.

Paul never stays, afterwards. Freddie doesn’t blame him—he knows he’s too much, too clingy. He’s lucky Brian put up with him for so many years, really, letting him hold onto him long after the sex was over. Brian probably wanted to leave too, he was just too kind to say it.

Still, Freddie can’t help asking, pathetically, “Will you stay, darling?” He’s cold and aching and all he wants is to be held.

“I have to deal with the studio, Freddie,” Paul says, not looking up from where he’s pulling his pants back on. “I have to fix things, remember?”

“Right,” Freddie says quietly. “Of course.”

“Phoebe got you this,” Paul says, just before he leaves, and gives Freddie a brand-new phone, one without a cracked screen. “All of your data has been transferred. Now, I’ll see you later. Call Phoebe or Joe if you need anything, all right?” And he’s gone before Freddie can even answer.

Automatically, as he opens it—it’s already all set up thanks to Phoebe—he goes on Instagram. Tonight, he does feel like reading more of those comments. 

He reads a few, they’re the same as every other day—not that it hurts less—but Freddie knows them by heart. He’s come to believe them with how many times he read them. 

_ omg this is so much better than reality tv. what a trainwreck  _ 😂😂

_ Dude, when will you admit that your music sucks and get a real job?! _

_ in what world is this guy still relevant?? he’s a shitty singer without a band! _

_ Seriously, guys, he’s just doing it for the attention.  _ 🤦 _ I’m unfollowing, that’s the only way to make him stop _

But then, a comment, not like the others, shows up on his screen, just below a picture of him he posted not long ago. He reads it over and over and over, trying to see if he read it wrong, if there’s a word he didn’t read correctly. 

His breath hitches in his throat when he realizes that he read the comment right, when tears start forming at the corners of his eyes. 

**harry4832:**

_ if i had those teeth, i’d kill myself _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Always On My Own" was the demo reel title for "Living On My Own". Pretty revealing title there, Freddie.
> 
> Also, we have nothing against anyone named Harry.
> 
> You have all been fabulous, as always! We love and cherish all of you. See you next time!


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Freddie watches Brian's interview.

The words crawl under his skin like ants. He can hardly read them now through the tears and confusion, but they’re seared into his brain. He doesn’t need to see to remember.

_ if i had those teeth, i’d kill myself _

Freddie drops his phone onto the bed beside him and presses the heels of his palms to his eyes, breathing hard. What the fuck. What the  _ fuck. _ They’re just words, just a message sent over the internet. He shouldn’t react like this. He shouldn’t be so  _ sensitive _ .

Somehow, though, this comment feels worse than the rest—worse than the other ones that point out any of the other myriad things wrong with him. There’s a difference between this one and the comment thread just above it; it’s filled with pure  _ malice _ that he can’t shake.

He pushes himself up on shaking arms and climbs out of bed. He can’t stay here, just lying there, just  _ thinking _ , not with those words in his head. Paul’s not here to drive them away, and he’ll never have Brian ( _ Brian _ ) again. With all his heart, he wishes that Paul could have stayed—that he could have just kept his temper at the studio. Maybe then Paul wouldn’t have had to go.

No, he’s too much. He’s being hysterical. It’s just a fucking  _ comment _ .

Shaking his head, like that will drive these thoughts away, Freddie pulls on a pair of track pants and a soft sweater. They’re hardly going-out clothes, but they’re warm and comfortable and he stole the sweater from Brian, years ago now. He remembers Brian laughing when he saw him in it, saying that if he liked it so much, he should just keep it.

He couldn’t bear to throw it away, even when he left. Even when every reminder of Brian is like being stabbed. Now, when Freddie wraps his arms around himself, he can almost pretend that Brian’s still here. That he’ll come up any moment to hug Freddie close because he loves seeing Freddie in this sweater—in his clothes generally—and press a kiss to the top of his head.

Clumsily wiping fresh tears from his face, Freddie reluctantly fetches his phone from the bed, crumpled sheets reminding him of all the ways he’s betrayed Brian, and goes downstairs to curl up on the good couch. He’ll watch television, something on one of the English channels, anything to get his mind off of that Instagram post. Anything to make the tears stop.

It would be better, he reflects, if the house wasn’t so empty. Phoebe and Joe are here somewhere, but they’ll have heard him coming back with Paul and they always stay well clear when that sort of thing is happening. They’re probably holed up in the kitchen, Joe’s domain, and Freddie could call them out to sit with him—but he remembers the looks they give him these days, the ones that say they’re more worried about him than they can say, and doesn’t.

He hates those looks. And besides, he’s not a child, to need company every moment of the day. He  _ can _ be alone, if he wants to be.

Freddie’s thinking of all this as he flicks through the channels—feeling very grown-up and extremely lonely—and Brian’s face takes him entirely by surprise. He hasn’t seen Brian in months, even in pictures, but he’d recognize him anywhere, and here he is, suddenly manifested on Freddie’s large-screen television, giving his nervous smile to the camera.

“Tonight: Brian May, discussing Queen and badger culling!” the announcer says, upbeat and peppy, even as the shot changes to show a pretty young woman. “Also in the studio, Anita Dobson!” The camera zooms in on the host, a slightly tubby man with thinning hair, who shuffles papers on his desk, grinning. “All that and more, on Late Night Blake! Don’t change the channel, we’ll be right back!”

Freddie can feel his heartbeat in his ears, it’s throbbing so incredibly hard. He’s not sure he’ll be able to handle seeing Brian ( _ Brian _ ) after so much time. It already hurts, and he just barely saw his face. Can he handle seeing him, hearing talk like nothing happened?

_ Discussing Queen _ , what does it mean? Is there already a new singer? An album already planned? Without him, all of this is without him. It’ll always be without him from now on. Can he handle really seeing it? Hearing it from Brian’s own mouth? Maybe he’ll tell the world what he’s always wanted to tell Freddie. 

This doesn’t help prevent tears at all. Maybe it’s even worse, just thinking about somebody replacing him, someone taking his place. Someone so much better. Maybe Brian likes this person better than he ever liked Freddie. Maybe he’ll say it, maybe he’ll tell the world how much better his life is when Freddie’s not there to bother him. 

His thumb hovers uncertainly over the change channel button on his remote, but in the end, the desire to see Brian again wins out over his terror of what Brian might say. Brian can tell the world that he and Roger and John are glad to be rid of Freddie; that’s fine. As long as he can see him,  _ see _ that he’s all right, see that Freddie made the right choice in leaving him…

“Now, please welcome to the studio: Brian May!” the host says, throwing out an arm, and there he is.

Brian. Freddie’s love, his life, his joy, walking out from between a pair of curtains, smiling nervously and thanking the crowd. He’s just as tall and awkward as he’s ever been, and Freddie wants to take him in his arms, hold him close, smooth the anxious lines from his brow. Brian’s never liked giving interviews on his own—where’s Roger? Where’s John?

“Thank you for being here, Brian,” the host says as Brian takes his seat. “As you can see, the public is very happy to have you in here!”

“I’m happy to be here and very honored to have been invited,” Brian replies. He doesn’t  _ sound _ like he’s lying, but he doesn’t exactly look relaxed either.

“Well, Brian, we all know you’re here to talk about badger rights,” the host says, and pauses for the audience to laugh. “But I think we’d like to know the answers to some more pressing questions first.” Then he launches into the questions Freddie’s been dreading: “What’s going on with the band right now? Can we ever expect a new album? And what exactly happened between Freddie Mercury and you?”

Brian hesitates for perhaps a second too long, Freddie and the studio audience holding their breath, and then he says, without much discernable emotion, “We decided as a band that it would be best to take a break. We haven’t broken up, so there will be a new album, just not right now. As for the situation between Freddie and me, I prefer not to comment.”

He doesn’t seem affected, as if he said something banal, like it’s a fact not important enough to think about for long. He said it as if it doesn't bother him, as if them breaking up has been nothing major. 

Freddie told himself he would be stronger, that it’s fine if it turns out this way; he told himself he wouldn’t care. But he does care, a lot,  _ too _ much. He cares so much that the idea of Brian not caring about the break up, having no particular feelings about it, breaks him. Or at least it breaks him more than he already was broken. He was just a bother, and it must be such a release, not to have him asking for hugs and kisses all the time, not to have him asking if Brian loves him every hour of the day, because otherwise he’ll stop believing it. 

Brian is probably happy for them to be away from each other; it must be freeing to him. He’s just too kind to say it to the camera. He’s always been so kind.

It’s a bit weird though, why is Brian saying that Queen is still together? Still planning on new albums? Why is he lying? Or is he  _ not _ lying? Are they planning all that but with someone else? Brian’s voice is so flat and difficult to read that Freddie can’t guess what he’s really thinking. 

He wishes that Brian’s telling the truth, that he still believes Queen will make it through this mess together, but he’s being delusional. Of course Brian wouldn’t think that. He just doesn’t want to say it in front of the host, that’s all. He must want to be rid of Freddie; of course he doesn’t want him, especially after all the shit Freddie pulled. Of course he doesn’t care about the break up. Of course he’s happy he gets to live now without having someone always glued to his side—so annoying.

Freddie concentrates back on the TV. The pretty woman from the intro—Anita something—has stepped on stage and sat down next to Brian, so close, almost touching him. They’re talking about badger culling, and they both seem so passionate. So sure of themselves.

Brian has that look in his eyes that he wears when he’s talking about something he loves. He’s looking at Anita with it, all intelligence and enthusiasm. It used to be a look he only shared with Freddie, and now this young woman gets to see it too.

She’s really pretty, he can’t help but note, eyeing her facial structure critically—so much prettier than Freddie. 

She knows what Brian’s talking about, she has her own opinion about this thing Brian’s always been so dedicated to. Freddie’s never been good at that. He always listened to Brian, trying to show Brian that he  _ does  _ care. But nothing ever stuck in his head, he’s never been a good enough boyfriend to be able to have those types of conversations together. Brian endured him for so long; no wonder he’s happier now that he’s finally free.

He should have been better, he should have worked harder, should have forced himself to be the one Brian wanted, the one he should have expected Brian would want. He should have stopped asking for stupid little cuddles and instead asked Brian to  _ make _ him learn. He shouldn’t have been so selfish.

“Freddie?”

It’s Phoebe, hovering in the doorway, hesitant and cautious. He’s always cautious around Freddie these days, like he’s made of glass.

“What?” Freddie asks roughly. He realizes that he’s been crying and his face is soaked with tears. Cursing to himself, he wipes at his cheeks with the back of his hand, his eyes still caught on Brian and this woman who suits him so well.

“Do you want me to sit with you?” Phoebe asks, so gently. “I could bring some hot tea.”

Rage sparks in Freddie, hot and sudden. Phoebe has found out about Brian’s interview somehow and he expected to find Freddie falling to pieces. He’s thinking that Freddie will want to cling to his hand and cry into his shoulder.

He  _ pities _ him. Poor, silly Freddie, still crying over the man  _ he _ left  _ months _ ago, who can’t even live on his own because he’s dependent like a fucking  _ child _ —

“I don’t want you  _ fucking _ pity, Phoebe,” Freddie spits, one trembling hand knotting in Brian’s sweater.

He didn’t know that Phoebe could fake surprise so well. “Freddie, I don’t—”

“Get out!”

“Freddie—”

“I said  _ get out! _ ” Freddie screams, and Phoebe obeys, disappearing back down the hallway towards the kitchen. As his footsteps fade, Freddie pulls at his own hair, struggling to breathe through the anger and the pain. He can hardly see through his tears; on the television, Brian and the lovely young woman are waving goodbye to the camera.

They  _ click _ , Brian and the woman. They must have spoken before, to be so natural with each other. He wonders where they met, if Brian’s slept with her yet. If he’s held her the way he used to hold Freddie, in the bed that used to belong to them.

He pulls the neck of Brian’s sweater up over his mouth, breathing in deeply. It doesn’t smell like Brian anymore—doesn’t smell like anything, really, except maybe detergent. He’s lost everything of Brian except his memories, and even those will fade with time. Someday, there will be nothing left. Brian will have moved on, to the wife and family he deserves, and Freddie will be left with nothing—just a sweater that isn’t even really Brian’s, not anymore.

And there will be no one, no one to hold Freddie close and bring love, blooming, into his heart, the way Brian did. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You have all been so lovely, and we feel like two of the luckiest writers on the planet to have such kind and thoughtful readers! We hope that you all enjoy this chapter too and all the ones to come.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brian is haunted.

Sometimes, Brian thinks he should just sell the house and move on—find somewhere new, someplace not haunted by Freddie. His smile, his laugh, his voice. A place where he can turn the corner and  _ not _ see Freddie curled on the couch, or waiting for him in bed, or just brushing his teeth. A house that isn’t at least three-quarters empty, one that doesn’t mimic the inside of Brian’s chest quite so accurately.

But he can never bring himself to do it. This is the last thing he has of Freddie’s, and in so many ways it suits him. Brian can’t really imagine living in that  _ somewhere else _ , not without Freddie. A part of him still clings to the idea that if he just waits long enough—if he’s patient enough, loyal enough—Freddie will come back, fill in all those empty spaces, and everything will be just the way it was.

He’s in the sitting room, collapsed on the couch, staring into the kitchen. He can see himself cooking—one of their romantic nights in, Joe and Phoebe sent away, everything done themselves—and Freddie sat at the island, chin in his hands, laughing at Brian’s attempt to make vegetarian spaghetti sauce. If he turns his head, even slightly, he can see Freddie lying next to him on the couch, feel his head on his thigh. He remembers pulling a blanket around him, tucking him in, and how Freddie would nuzzle into him, eyes closing.

Brian lets his head fall back and he stares, sightlessly, at the ceiling. Freddie’s everywhere in this house; he’s drowning in him.

There are memories haunting him, oh god yes there are. Freddie, sat on his lap, taking his head back down, both hands on his cheeks, leaning in to kiss him. To place his soft lips on his, hair always getting in the way, but the kiss is so lovely that it doesn’t matter. There are memories of Freddie everywhere. 

Is he haunted too by the memories? Does Freddie even think of Brian? Does he spend all night seeing him, remembering every touch, every word, every  _ I love you _ ? 

Brian can deal with the memories, as long as he tells himself Freddie will walk straight into his arms again. He can deal with all those memories, if it only means Freddie’s still there, waiting in the bed, asking for a bit of love, asking for a fraction of what he really deserves. If it means that Brian can give him all the love he ever needs.

But Freddie isn’t there, and Brian needs to keep telling himself that as he remembers the feeling of Freddie’s cold nose on his neck, as he remembers the feeling of delicate hands gripping onto his arm, keeping both of them so close together. 

He longs for the feeling of Freddie curled up in his arms, all warm and loving.

Brian turns sideways on the couch, burying his face in the crook of his arm.

He can’t take much more of this.

  
  


Some time later—and Brian really isn’t sure how much time has passed; he’s been lost in the grey—the doorbell rings, unexpectedly.

Brian sits up, wiping his face, frowning slightly. It could be the housekeeper, but she has today off and anyway she has a key. She could just let herself in, just like she always does—unless she forgot it? Anyone could forget their keys; he’s done it before himself. That must be what’s happening, he tells himself, even as he gets up and starts toward the front door with eager steps, fragile hope beginning to bloom. Maybe, just  _ maybe _ —

But when he yanks the door open, it’s just the woman from the TV interview, and Brian has to swallow dark, bitter disappointment.

“Oh, hello,” he says, some of his sadness creeping into his voice. Then he blinks, and adds, “Wait, what are you doing here?”

“It’s nice to see you again, too,” she says cheerfully. “Your manager—Jim Beach, right?—he gave me your address. I told you I wanted to stop by and talk about badger culling, remember?”

Brian doesn’t, actually, and he has to try very hard not to frown at her. “Oh,” he says again. “Well—come on in?”

The woman—her name is Anita, he remembers suddenly—doesn’t budge. “Actually, I was thinking we could go out,” she says, jerking her thumb towards a small hatchback parked in his driveway. “There’s this lovely new Mediterranean place I’ve heard about near here and I’ve been  _ dying _ to try it.”

Brian was not at all prepared for this when he answered the door. “Out? You mean, like—out to eat?” he says, doubtfully.

“Just to talk about animal welfare,” Anita says quickly. “I think we could do a lot of good if we teamed up, don’t you?” She smiles at him, and it’s not pitying. It’s the first time in months someone hasn’t looked at him with pity or anger.

“I’m not…” he says, and gestures vaguely at the house.

“I know. Really, just as friends.” She pulls out her keys and dangles them in the air. “I’ll even make you pay for gas and your half of the meal, if that makes you feel better?”

It does, actually, and so does her frank, earnest face. She could be lying—she  _ is _ an actress—but somehow Brian doesn’t think so.

“Well—all right,” he says, giving in. “Let me get my shoes.”

He fetches his shoes and his wallet, and they have to turn back halfway down the drive because he forgot his jacket, but eventually they’re on their way—Brian and this woman, Anita, who he only met very briefly a few days ago.

Anita’s upbeat and bubbly—like Freddie in a good mood—and Brian finds himself relaxing into the passenger seat, just listening to her talk. She’s a star on a weekly drama series on the BBC, he discovers, which he’s probably watched in passing. No wonder she looked familiar when he first saw her. She tells him about her coworkers on their way to the restaurant she talked about, relating funny stories of their little quirks and spats. If he wasn’t in love with Freddie, he might be in some danger of falling for her—but as it is, he doesn’t feel the slightest attraction to her.

She’s simply a vivacious young woman who shares his passion for animal welfare and showed up at his house unannounced to force him to go out to lunch.

“Oh, parking here’s a  _ bitch, _ ” she mutters, during her attempt to parallel park, and Brian laughs for the first time since Freddie left.

If the maitre d’ is at all surprised to find two celebrities in front of him, he does a remarkable job of not showing it. Brian does notice, however, that despite the place’s clear popularity, they get a table almost immediately, the maitre d’ snapping his fingers and summoning a waitress to his side as soon as they ask for a spot.

“This way, sir, madam,” the waitress murmurs. Her eyes dart between them nervously.  _ She’s _ definitely shocked to find herself serving celebrities. She lays two menus on the table and flees in the direction of the kitchen. Poor girl.

“Do you know what’s good here?” Brian asks, opening the menu.

“All of it, I think. Although one of my friends would  _ not _ stop talking about the couscous.” Anita’s browsing the wine list, though she lowers it after a moment, looking at him seriously. “I don’t want to push,” she says, “but—well, I suppose I’m pushing anyway. Character flaw.” She laughs at herself. “Why are you still living in that house?  _ He _ left  _ you _ , didn’t he?”

Brian looks down. He rubs his thumb over the menu’s textured paper, back and forth, back and forth. He can feel her earnest eyes fixed on him, waiting patiently. Finally, he says what he’s never voiced out loud: “He might come back. I want him to be able to find me.”

Anita lets out a breath. “I thought it might be something like that,” she says sadly, and hands him the wine list. “Here. I think you need this more than I do.” When he takes it, staring at the small print without really seeing it, she goes on: “ _ Why _ did he leave? Do you know?”

Brian shakes his head, swallowing back tears. “No,” he whispers. “I have no idea why.”

Their timid waitress returns then, and Anita, apparently realizing that Brian hasn’t actually absorbed anything on the menu, orders a red wine and an appetizer for both of them.

(She did a little bit of research before just turning up at his house. She knows that they were together for almost ten years—surely he  _ does _ know why Freddie left, even if he doesn’t realize it. Even if he can’t articulate it to himself.)

“Tell me about him,” Anita says, folding her hands on the tablecloth in front of her. “I really only know what the tabloids say, and they have to be wrong. They’re wrong about everything.”

A small smile forms on Brian’s face, a happy Freddie in the back of his mind. 

“He’s lovely, so incredibly lovely,” Brian says quietly, a lump forming in his throat; he misses him so badly. “He’s really not at all like the press describes him. He’s sweet and so kind. He always wanted me to be happy, he cares so much about others, so much that he tends to forget about his own happiness.”

A treasured memory fills Brian’s mind. 

  
  
  


There was warmth, a small body on his, Freddie’s, skinny arms tucked under his chest. The air he let out left a warm spot on Brian’s collarbone. Freddie’s breath was slow and loud, almost loud enough to be snores. 

“I love you,” Brian whispered, intense happiness filling him all the way to his throat, choking him up.

“Hmm?” Freddie opened his eyes slowly, a shy smile taking over his face when he noticed Brian was looking at him. “I love you too,” he whispered back, snuggling even closer to Brian and placing small kisses on the bare skin of his neck. He let out a soft, contented sigh. “Let me sleep now,” he said, his sweet smile slipping into something joking. 

  
  
  


“He’s different, but in the best way possible.”

He misses him  _ so badly _ .

There are tears prickling at his eyes, but he’s in the middle of a restaurant, he  _ can’t  _ just cry there, in front of people that could be fans, in front of Anita.

“Sorry, I need to go to the bathroom,” he whispers, because speaking any louder would make his voice crack. 

He doesn’t leave any time for Anita to answer. He just gets up from his chair, jerkily, walking away as quickly as possible. He barely has time to check that there’s no one else in the bathroom before he crumbles, loud sobs shaking his whole body. 

He can’t bear all of this, he  _ can’t. _

Wiping his eyes, he leans against the sink, meeting his own gaze in the mirror. His face is red and puffy from crying. He’s a  _ wreck _ ; no wonder Freddie left. No wonder Freddie thought he could do better somewhere else. No wonder Roger and John blame him for fracturing the band—it’s all his fault. It has to be. Nothing else makes sense. He tried for years to show Freddie how much he was loved, and somewhere along the way he failed.

Brian brushes away more tears, then, resolutely, turns on the faucets and splashes cold water on his face. He doesn’t feel any better, but Anita’s waiting out there all by herself, and she’s been very friendly so far. If Freddie were here, he’d push away his own tears to help someone else out; Brian has to try to do the same, even though all he wants to do is go home and curl up in bed and sleep forever. He can hear Freddie now:

“ _ The show must go on, darling. _ ”

“The show must go on,” he whispers. He firms up his jaw and returns to the table.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alternate chapter summary: The one where Anita becomes friends with Brian even though he's confused and doesn't know what she's doing at his house.
> 
> You all continue to be fabulous! We hope you enjoyed and we will see you next time~


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Freddie's social media experience somehow becomes worse.

As usual, Freddie wakes up alone. Paul’s side of the bed—the side where he was when Freddie fell asleep, anyway—is cold and empty. He’s been gone for hours, probably smoothing over more mistakes Freddie’s made in the studio over the past few days.

Freddie wishes someone— _anyone_ —would stay.

His head hurts and his mouth is dry, telltale side effects from a night out at Winnie’s. He remembers some of the alcohol, a pill slipped into his palm under the table. The rest of the night is a blur—smile, be funny, be witty, laugh, no, don’t smile too much, compliment Winnie on his cooking, get Barbara to translate, tell a joke, be upbeat, be on, be on, be on, _be on_.

Wincing at the ache in his hips, Freddie rolls onto his side, staring at the clock. 11:10 in the morning. He’s still so tired; his eyes burn, but they won’t stay closed. God knows what time they got in last night, how many hours of sleep he’s managed to scrape together.

He reaches for his phone and thumbs it open, glancing through his missed calls without much interest. There are six more from Roger and a voicemail that he deletes—one from Ronnie too, oddly, though she didn’t leave a message—and three from Jim Beach. Freddie deletes Miami’s voicemail too, just to be thorough.

There’s nothing from Brian ( _Brian_ ). There’s never anything from Brian.

Biting his lip, glancing around the room like he might get caught, Freddie accesses Instagram and types in Brian’s username. He can’t help himself, any more than he could stop himself from falling in love with Brian in the first place—he has to see what he’s up to, if he’s all right. There’s been so little information about him over the past few months, like Brian’s just hidden himself away, but maybe that horrible television interview will have shaken things loose.

He hasn’t been on social media since the interview aired, and he’s expecting to see people talking about that—he’s braced himself for it as well as he can when he’s curled up naked in bed, cold and aching and lonely and so very far from Brian. So he’s surprised to see, instead, a picture of Brian at a restaurant, holding a menu, sitting opposite the same lovely young woman from the television show.

Freddie’s heart lurches. Brian’s face is serious, thoughtful—that lovely expression he only wears when he’s really interested in a conversation—and the woman leans onto the table into his space, focused on Brian and only Brian.

It’s a date. It has to be a date.

The caption reads: _Is @BrianMay dating @RealAnitaDobson now??_

_Woww_ 😳 _some guys get all the luck_

_he deserves someone as awesome as @RealAnitaDobson after dealing with @FreddieMercury for so many years_

_OK I can understand the cheating now_

_Oh my god, I can’t believe OP got to see two of my fave celebs! And they’re dating!!!_ ❤️❤️❤️

 _So does this mean May cheated on Mercury with Anita?_ 🤔

_can you imagine @FreddieMercury seeing this, he is going to FLIP lol_

Freddie should have expected it. Of course, if they’re dating there will be pictures of them everywhere on the Internet. But the comments are right, Brian deserves someone awesome after dealing with him for so long. 

He must be relieved, relieved to not have to deal with him every fucking day of his life. To not have to endure each of his needs, his demands. He must be relieved to be rid of him, rid of his kisses, rid of his never ending _I love you_ s, rid of all his overwhelming insecurities. He must be so much happier, free, able to be with someone that he deserves. 

He’ll be able to have a family now, have kids, get married without all the critics and the stares in the streets. He can be happy without Freddie holding him back. 

And it hurts so badly—it hurts so _incredibly_ badly. It hurts to know that he was and never will be enough. It hurts to know Brian can move on so quickly, forget about him in no time, while Freddie still looks at Brian (thinks about Brian) and can’t ever imagine being with someone else. Not that anyone would want someone like him anyway.

 _Nobody_ wants a fuckup like him.

Wiping away more fucking tears, Freddie exits out of the search, which lands him right back onto his main feed. Unfortunately, because of all the mentions, that, too, is awash with pictures of Brian and that Anita woman at the restaurant—talking, passing menus, Brian on the verge of smiling. Freddie knew he lost Brian the moment he walked out of their house, but this, here, is the proof that he’ll never get him back.

A picture of himself intrudes on the parade of Brian-and-Anita, and for a moment Freddie doesn’t even recognize it. Then he remembers—Paul suggesting he post a selfie yesterday, from the studio, showing the inside of the recording booth. He’d been tipsy, and a little high from a line of coke in the bathroom, and it hadn’t seemed like such a bad idea at the time. He’s smiling wider in the picture than he usually does, showing more teeth, and he can just see the reflection of his own cell phone in his sunglasses. He would _never_ have posted this sober.

There’s a new comment:

**harry4832:**

_i would rather die than admit to releasing such shitty music_

It’s that guy again, leaving another awful, vile comment. Freddie feels the tears burning again in his eyes. _Again_ , always again _._ So fucking weak. 

There are even people that _liked_ the comment, people that agree with him. People that think he should be dead? Is that what it means? Is he really so much of a fuckup? Is he that unbearable to look at? That unbearable to endure? 

Maybe he is. 

Maybe Brian liked that comment too. Maybe he agrees with it too, maybe he thinks he’d be better off dead too. Just the thought brings heavy shivers on Freddie’s body. It makes his heart hurt. It makes the tears in the corner of his eyes fall. It makes him want to hide away somewhere, and never come out again. 

It makes him want to di—

No, those aren’t his own words. He’s getting carried away, getting dramatic again. 

At least if Brian was there, he could make him believe otherwise; he would tell him how fantastic he is, how perfect he is.

But he would be lying, wouldn’t he? Just to make Freddie feel better. Brian never believed any of it. There’s no way that that’s what he thought of him. 

At least it would be better than not having him there at all. Brian’s arms around him would be enough, a bit of warmth, a bit of _love_ . The love he doesn’t deserve and never will. But the love he craves so badly. He just wants Brian _here_ ; he wants Brian to love him. 

It doesn’t matter. He should just _stop_ thinking about it. Brian doesn’t love him, he’ll never see him in real life again. Brian is already with someone else, he’s happy—happy without him. He just has to live with it, he doesn’t have the choice but to. Unless—

 _Shut up,_ he tells himself, _you’re being ridiculous._

Maybe Paul would understand; maybe Paul would hold him for a few seconds, at least, if he saw that Freddie’s feeling miserable. Maybe he would hug him, for a little bit, until he feels better. Maybe he’d be reassuring? Maybe he’d tell him that they’re all wrong, that he’s better than what they’re all saying. Freddie would never believe him, but at least he’d hear the words from someone’s mouth.

Yeah, that’s a good idea. 

Buoyed by the thought of comfort, Freddie pulls himself out of bed and into some clothes. Paul’s probably downstairs, maybe in the office. He didn’t say he was leaving, so he has to be around here somewhere—on his phone or his laptop, working. Freddie pads out of the room, barefoot, and goes in search of him, tears drying on his cheeks.

Sure enough, Paul’s in the office, set up at the desk with his sleek, silver laptop. At least he’s not talking on the phone to someone, so Freddie won’t be getting in his way too much.

“Paul?” he says from the doorway, tentative.

Paul looks up and spots him; a smile flickers across his lips before it’s replaced by concern. “What’s the matter, Freddie? Did you get lonely?”

Freddie shifts from foot to foot, but ultimately can’t stop himself. “Yes, darling,” he admits, quiet and hurting. “The bedroom’s so empty without you.”

“Come here, then.” Paul pushes the desk chair back, pats his knee. “You can sit with me for a minute, surely?”

Yes, it was a good idea to come to Paul. Breathless with relief, Freddie hurries across the room before Paul changes his mind, perching on his thigh. He winds his arms around Paul’s shoulders and buries his face in his neck, closing his eyes.

Paul shifts under him, balancing his weight, then rubs his hip through his sweatpants. “There,” he says comfortingly. “Is that better? What’s got you so worked up?”

“A—a horrid comment, darling.” Just thinking about it has Freddie in tears again. He pulls his phone from his hoodie pocket, offering it to Paul. “It’s more awful than the others,” he whispers. “What am I supposed to _do?_ ”

Paul gets past Freddie’s lock screen in a bare moment—he knows the password—and just looks at harry4832’s comment, quiet and assessing. “This is the one?” he asks, indicating with his thumb.

Freddie nods, hiding his face again.

“Freddie,” Paul says, “you do know how lucky you are, right?”

Blinking, confused, Freddie pulls back to look at him. “I’m sorry?”

“Think about it,” Paul says gently. He puts Freddie’s phone down on the desk and gestures around the office with his now-free hand. “You can afford to buy anything you like. You don’t go hungry. You have this massive house.” He indicates the comment, still glaringly bright on the screen. “Do you think you have a right to be upset by a few nasty words on the internet?”

Freddie’s never thought of it that way before. He bites his lip and ducks his head, shame washing through him. “No,” he whispers.

“Exactly. You need to understand your position, Freddie. You’re extremely lucky to have all these things, for how talented you are. Chin up.” Paul tugs his hair, forcing him to meet his eyes. “Stop crying. This is nothing.”

Freddie nods, biting the inside of his cheek, trying to keep the tears in, trying to not disappoint Paul, trying to be normal. He’s got everything he should need, why does he keep asking for more? 

“Now please, Freddie, don’t waste my time again,” Paul says, slowly pushing Freddie off of his legs, leaving him empty again. 

“I’m sorry,” Freddie whispers, shame still filling him, making his throat close up.

“It's fine, just go. And try to get some more sleep, Freddie,” Paul says, his eyes already back on his computer. “You look terrible. We can’t have people saying you’re sick, can we?”

Freddie shakes his head and leaves Paul to his work; he doesn’t want to be even more of a bother than he already is. He walks out the office, back to his room, not really feeling better. But now he knows—he can’t cry, he’s already so lucky, he _can’t_ cry again. If he does, he’ll hate himself even more. 

Looking back at the comment, Freddie swallows his tears back. He tightens his jaw, forces himself to be strong, to stop being so weak. His jaw hurts, but at least now he’s not crying, at least now he looks a bit more like an adult than an over emotional child. 

A single tear falls from his right eye, no matter how hard he fights. He wipes it away as quickly as possible. He can’t do _anything_ right. 

No wonder Brian wanted someone better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PSA: Your feelings are always valid and you have every right to them.
> 
> You are all superstars and we love you! Thank you so much for every one of your hits, kudos, and comments—we treasure them all. As always, we hope you enjoyed this latest chapter and we will see you next time!


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Even John and Roger are struggling.

“Have you tried calling Freddie recently?”

John looks up, blinking against the morning light. Ronnie’s stood in front of the kitchen window, washing up breakfast dishes, her hair tucked behind her ears.

“What?”

“Have you tried calling Freddie recently?” she repeats patiently. Her profile is picked out in gold.

Fiddling with his fork, turning it over in amongst the scrambled eggs, John lets the sun scorch his eyes. “No,” he says. In truth, he stopped trying at least a month ago, when it became clear that Freddie had no intention of picking up or returning his calls.

Ronnie doesn’t say anything for a moment, concentrating on scrubbing out the frying pan. “How do you know he won’t answer now?” she asks. She knows him so well.

“Because I know him,” John says, sighing. “He’s stubborn. He’s decided he won’t talk to us—any of us. Even Roger can’t get through.”

“Is Roger still trying?”

“As far as I know,” John admits. It’s more than he does. It’s more than he  _ can _ do—it hurts, more than he can say, to hear his calls go straight to voicemail, to know that Freddie will just delete whatever message he leaves without listening to it. He doesn’t know how Roger can bear it, to be intentionally forgotten.

Ronnie turns and puts her back to the counter, scrutinizing him carefully. “You’ll never get him back if you don’t try,” she observes.

“We  _ have _ been trying,” John says to the eggs. “For  _ months _ , Ronnie.”

“Don’t give up on him,” she says, gently. At that—at last—she lets it drop, turning back to the sink. “Which car are you taking today?”

They talk of meaningless things while John finishes his breakfast, or as meaningless as they can be when, at times, this is all he wants: to be here, at home, with his wife and children. To live a normal life, to be a normal husband and father.

Now he has it, though—now that Queen’s future is bleak and he only sees Roger, and even then only every couple of weeks—he isn’t so sure he can do it. Live like this forever, without the others. Without Freddie.

He kisses Ronnie goodbye at the door, and she waves as he pulls out of the drive—brave, beautiful Ronnie, who’s stood beside him for so many years, through thick and thin, feast and famine. She knows him better than he knows himself.

It’s an hour drive to Roger’s, and he spends all of it thinking about what she said.  _ Has _ he given up too soon? Would Freddie answer his phone now if he called? Could he bring him back?

To test her theory, he rings up Freddie’s number on the way, holding his breath, trying to suffocate his own hope.

Sure enough, it goes straight to voicemail. John doesn’t bother leaving a message.

No, Freddie’s left them behind—left them  _ all _ behind. John doesn’t have the first idea how to get him back, how to convince him to come home.

Roger answers his own door when John knocks. His eyes are red and shadowed, and he has a full glass of Scotch in one hand, even though it’s not even noon. “Hey,” he croaks. His voice is shot; he’s probably been crying again.

“Hey,” John says, cautiously. He edges inside, lets Roger slam the door behind him. “You’re drinking already?”

“Why the fuck not?” Roger says moodily. “What else is there to do?” He toasts his grand staircase. “To fucking  _ Brian _ . Fucker. Wish I’d never met him.”

“Come on.” John puts an arm around Roger’s shoulders, gently urging him into the sitting room. “Let’s sit down, yeah?”

There’s a heavy silence when they both sit down on the couch. John observes Roger as he keeps drinking from his glass, making occasional sniffling sounds. He does look really miserable. It’s not like it’s very surprising. Freddie has always been Roger’s best friend. 

“I keep calling him, you know?” Roger mutters before taking another sip. “The idiot never fucking answers,” he says, and there’s anger in his voice, but most of all, there’s sadness. He can’t believe this is happening. 

Roger isn’t much of a crier, he’s never been. But this is the worst of all nightmares. This is something Roger feared for so many years, no matter how much he repressed the thoughts.  _ Why _ would Brian break Freddie’s heart? He loves him.

He used to, anyway. 

Roger just wants to know, to understand what the fuck happened. Because Freddie wouldn’t have left for nothing, it was clear that he loved Brian with every ounce of his being. He probably still does. He would have never left for a small fight, he wouldn’t have left for a  _ fucking _ record deal. He’s not that heartless, no matter what the press seems to think. 

“We’ll find a way, Rog, to bring him back, I promise,” John states; it’s a bold statement, especially for the man who only minutes before thought about giving up. But now that he sees Roger, he just  _ can’t  _ give up. They need Freddie, they need him so bad. 

“Yeah, well it’s not of much use if I kill Brian before then.” The anger shows back up in Roger’s voice, he grips the glass he’s holding tightly, his fingers turning white, persuaded it’ll break. He needs something to do with himself, something to break, something to hit.  _ Brian seems like a good option _ , he thinks as an almost sadistic smile forms on his pale face.

Fuck him, fuck this great friendship they had, fuck this incredible music they manage to make,  _ fuck him. _

“We’re not sure of  _ anything _ yet, Roger,” John says, trying to calm Roger down a bit. They have no proof it’s his fault, no proof he did anything, no proof he even knows what happened to make Freddie leave. 

“Can you find any other reason why he would leave like that?”

“I’m sure there are plenty,” John says quietly. He doesn’t know any more reasons than Roger does, but he doesn’t want to believe Brian could have done something.  _ Brian _ , the guy who used to do everything to make Freddie feel happy. Brian, the one who looked at Freddie like he hung the stars, the moon, and the sun. Brian, the one who looked at Freddie like he was his  _ whole  _ world. Why would he hurt him?

They must be missing something important, must have forgotten about something. Or maybe Freddie’s hidden it all inside of him, just like he usually does. 

“Well, how about that new girl, then?” Roger challenges. He digs around for his phone, and, fumbling, manages to bring up Instagram. “Look! The son of a bitch has already moved on with some  _ actress _ —maybe he cheated on Freddie with her!  _ That’s _ why Freddie left, I know it.”

Frowning, John takes Roger’s phone from him and looks through a stream of posts, all showing pictures of Brian and some young lady at a restaurant, eating together. John isn’t on any social media; he’s never seen them before.

“Brian doesn’t exactly look happy here,” he points out. “I mean, the picture quality’s shit, but he looks awful.”

“Maybe he’s sick,” Roger offers. The thought brings a blissful smile to his face. “I  _ hope _ he’s sick. I hope he’s got something horrible.”

“Come on, Roger, you don’t really—"

“I  _ do, _ ” Roger insists. His eyes burn in his pale face. “I  _ swore _ I’d protect him, Deaky, remember? If anyone hurt him, I’d hurt the bastard back. And I can’t even help him now. There’s nothing I can do.” He lowers his head, staring down into his drink. John thinks he might be on the verge of tears again. “He won’t even  _ talk _ to me,” he says helplessly. “I can’t even tell him that I think Brian’s a piece of shit for throwing him away.”

“We don’t know that,” John says again. He keeps scrolling through Roger’s Instagram feed, frowning down at it. He’s trying to be the peacemaker here—trying to be optimistic—but the evidence  _ is _ damning.

“Seriously, what else could it be?” Roger demands. “Why  _ else _ would Freddie go so far away? Shack up with that—that  _ fucking _ bastard Paul?” His hand tightens on his glass; he looks ready to throw it at the wall, and John places a quick, restraining hand on his forearm.

“I know, I know,” John says, trying to be calming. And he  _ does _ understand—or, rather, doesn’t. None of it makes sense to him: Brian and Freddie’s breakup, Brian just  _ letting _ Freddie leave, Freddie going all the way to  _ Germany _ , Freddie staying with Paul. It’s all a puzzle. It almost makes him want to talk to Brian, just to try to sort it out, but Roger needs him, and if there’s any chance that it  _ is _ Brian’s fault, that he  _ did _ cheat on Freddie…

John would never forgive him.

“I hate them,” Roger says, his face tight and pinched with rage. “I hate them both. Fuck Brian. Fuck Paul. Why won’t Freddie just  _ talk _ to me?”

“Maybe Miami knows a way to get in contact with him?” John’s grasping at straws, now, he knows it, but he’ll do anything at this point to get Roger to calm down.

“He doesn’t,” Rogery says grimly. “I asked. He does still talk to fucking Brian, though.”

Well, that’s not much help to their current situation, but John still notes the information, just in case. “Look,” he says, “I just think we’re missing some information—something that will make all of this make sense.”

“I  _ told _ you, it’s obvious what happened!” Roger says impatiently. “Brian probably cheated on him with that woman in the pictures! He  _ broke _ Freddie’s  _ heart _ , the fucker—if I ever see him again—”

Roger rants about Brian for a long time, and John mostly listens. Roger wouldn’t be so upset, he thinks, if, on some level, he hadn’t trusted Brian with Freddie. They both had. They both thought that, out of everyone in the world, Brian appreciated Freddie—loved him like he deserved. John had even thought, once upon a time, that Brian could teach Freddie how to love himself.

“God, this is so fucked up, Deaky,” Roger whispers painfully. He can feel heavy tears prickling at his eyes. John can see them too, even if he’s not that close to him. 

And just like that, naturally, he leans in to give Roger a hug. He needs one badly too. He notices how quickly his shoulder gets wet, and his eyes get damp too. He has to keep himself from crying, he needs to be there for Roger, no matter how hard it is for him.

_ Freddie didn’t get hugged like that _ , John thinks as he pulls Roger a bit more tightly against him. He didn’t get hugged like that when he needed it. 

They’ve never been really affectionate towards each other between Roger and him, not as much as they used to be with Freddie.  _ Each _ of Freddie’s hugs and little touches now seems like a blessing. They should have enjoyed it while it lasted, instead of jokingly rolling their eyes. They should have hugged him back more, should have told him how much he means to them. 

Freddie should have felt so safe and loved with them that he would have told them what happened. If only they made him feel more loved, maybe he’d still be with them. He’d have stayed with them, even if away from Brian.  _ If only _ —

It’s no use thinking about if’s. It’s too late, now they just need to fix this mess before them. They need to bring Freddie back, to make sure he’ll never leave again. They need to talk with him, know the truth,  _ hopefully  _ learn that Brian’s not guilty of all this.  _ Hopefully  _ keep recording, keep making music, keep living their life like it used to be. 

They  _ will _ bring him back, John won’t allow anything else. He’ll fight until his fucking death just to get to see Freddie again and maybe—hold him in his arms, never let him go again. 

Ronnie’s right: they can’t give up on Freddie.

“We’ll bring him back, I promise, Rog. I promise.”

It’s a promise to himself too. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We missed our other two boys, so even if they're having a tough time here, we had fun writing them!
> 
> We hope you all enjoyed this visit with John and Roger, and that you are looking forward to future updates! They won't be long in coming, we're enjoying ourselves too much to stop now. See you next time!


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brian realizes.

“Have I mentioned how much I love this place?” Anita says the moment Brian opens the door.

Even though it hurts, Brian can’t help smiling. “No, I don’t think you had much chance last time.”

“Well, I do. I love it, it’s completely gorgeous.” She steps past him into the hall, craning her neck to look around. “Who picked it out?” she asks, setting her purse on the hall table.

“Freddie,” Brian says wistfully, following her gaze around the repainted walls, the remodeled staircase, the gorgeous pictures on the walls. The house screams  _ Freddie _ ; it’s why Brian’s never been able to leave. “An old friend of his saw that it was for sale and sent him the link.”

“He has  _ excellent _ taste,” Anita says admiringly. She steps up to a framed Japanese print—the star on the front hall wall—and gently touches the wall just beside it. “I can see why you haven’t left. Is all of this stuff yours?”

“No.”

At that, Anita turns back to look at him, her eyes bright with curiosity. “Why didn’t he take everything with him?”

If it were anyone else, Brian would be shocked at their impertinence; as it is, it’s Anita, and he likes her bold questions. He feels more awake these days, more alive, thanks to her not-so-gentle prodding.

“I don’t know,” he says honestly. “I’m not sure his new place is big enough.” His new house—in Germany, so far away from Brian. He rubs his wrist with his fingers, trying to ground the sharp ache in his chest. “Do you want a drink?”

“A drink would be lovely, thank you.”

Brian leads her into the kitchen. He remembers only very vaguely what it looked like before Freddie got at it—he saw the old layout maybe once. It was completely demolished and remodeled while he was off doing… God, what  _ was _ he doing? He doesn’t even remember now, except that he was out of the country and Freddie was here, alone, ripping this house apart and remaking it into a home.

He wishes, now, that he had been here. He wishes he had been present for every moment, big or small—that he never missed a second. But he did, and now those moments—and Freddie—are lost to time. He can never get them back.

  
  
  


Freddie’s back was on Brian’s chest, his body lifting each time Brian breathed. He turned around, Brian’s arms loosening around him to let him move, and looked in Brian’s eyes. 

Freddie’s eyes were filled with a glimmer that always stayed there, each time he looked at Brian. 

“Will you love me forever?” he asked, his voice small and tentative. 

Brian pulled him closer, pressing a small kiss to his brow, then looking in his beautiful dark brown eyes. Their touches didn’t feel as electric as they used to when they first got together, but now each touch brought them unconditional love, took their breath away. 

“I’ll love you forever, baby. I promise.”

  
  
  


Anita slides onto a stool at the long island, folding her hands in front of her and watching Brian bustle about opening a bottle of red wine. “You’re not here all by yourself, are you?”

“I have a housekeeper who comes by to keep things clean.” He slides a full glass across to her, and watches her brows furrow.

“What about your friends? I know you’re in a band. What about the other two—what are their names—Roger, right? And… John?”

Brian shrugs. “We haven’t really spoken in months.” Since the day Freddie left, actually, and Brian doesn’t blame them. He failed Freddie, and they all know it. He was supposed to keep him safe, love him as they both grew old, and somehow, somewhere, it all went wrong. From the expression on Roger’s face, as they all stood outside Queen’s offices that horrible day, Brian knew that he would never forgive him.

Truthfully, he doesn’t expect or want their forgiveness. He deserves Roger’s rage, Deaky’s cautious distance.

He’s the one who destroyed everything, even if he doesn’t quite know how.

“I don’t understand,” Anita says, her face soft and concerned. “What  _ happened? _ ”

“With Roger and John?”

“With  _ Freddie. _ ” She’s staring at him earnestly, like she’s begging him to understand something. “You  _ have _ to know what went wrong. You knew him better than anybody!”

“I already told you, I  _ don’t _ know what happened.” Brian looks into the depths of his wine. Maybe he can scry an answer from there, like mystics and psychics always say. There’s a ball of hurt and frustration just below his sternum.

“Can you explain it to me, then?” Anita asks, pleading. “I just can’t believe that all this happened for no reason, not if he’s anything like you described to me. He wouldn’t do that to you.”

Brian sighs, squeezing his eyes shut, forcing back tears. “I don’t know what happened,” he says again. “He just—came down one day. He said it was never going to work, that he was leaving. He explained that he had this—record deal that Paul had gotten for him.”

“Paul?”

“His assistant.” Brian’s mouth thins. “His manager, now. Probably more.”

“You don’t like him,” Anita observes.

“No,” Brian says unnecessarily. His tone says that clearly enough. “He’s a manipulative son of a bitch and he only looks out for one person: Paul.” He shakes his head, raking a hand through his hair. “I’ve never understood why Freddie put up with him. He’s too kind, he doesn’t see how cruel people can be.”

Anita’s quiet for a moment, thinking, while Brian downs half of his wine in one go. He thinks about sweet, gentle Freddie, caught in Paul’s clutches in Germany—who knows what the bastard has done to him in all that time, the thing’s he’s convinced him of. Freddie has no defenses against people like Paul, and he never listened when Brian tried to warn him.

“Did he ever do anything like this before?” Anita asks finally. “Just leave suddenly, I mean?”

Brian goes to say no, but before the word can escape his mouth, he remembers, he remembers the worry, the dark ambiance, Freddie’s wrecked room. Yes, he did leave suddenly before. 

“He did,” Brian answers, gears turning in his head so quickly. “A few years ago. We were still young, not very popular, but Freddie already got so much hate for who he is, for everything. He didn’t think he was good enough for u—” Brian stops himself before he can finish his sentence. 

Is this what it is? Is this why? Oh no,  _ Freddie. _ Everything now seems to make sense, oh god it all fucking makes sense. Why didn’t he realise? Why wasn’t it the first thing he thought about? The endless asking to be told he was loved, the worry in Freddie’s eyes each time Brian didn’t hold his hand in the car, each time Brian stayed close, but without touching him. 

He’s such an  _ idiot. _

It somehow feels even worse. Yeah, maybe it’s not his own fault that Freddie is gone. But Freddie’s gone and he probably thinks this is the best thing to do, thinking this is what’s best for Brian, for everyone. He’s gone, thinking that, with Paul, who will never tell Freddie otherwise. 

“I knew you couldn’t just not know anything, Brian,” Anita says, lines of slight worry on her forehead. She gets closer to Brian, putting her small hand on his. 

_ Why didn’t he say anything?  _ Brian wonders. Why didn’t he talk to him, why didn’t he tell him that that’s what he thought? Brian is still not sure that’s what happened, but nothing else makes sense. Freddie thought it would be better if he  _ left _ . He maybe thought Brian wouldn’t miss him, maybe he thought that it wouldn’t change anything for him. 

“There’s that, but you also said that Paul was manipulative. Maybe he made things worse, you know? Convinced Freddie of things that weren’t true?” Anita suggests. 

It does make sense. He was the one who found Freddie a record deal, the one who could have made him go away. Maybe it’s both of those things, maybe Paul is the one who made Freddie believe all those things, just so Freddie would come to Munich. It wouldn’t be surprising at all. He has no empathy, not one good bone in his body. 

Brian rubs his face, he’s getting a headache with all this thinking, and because it takes a lot to hold in so much tears. The wine probably isn’t helping either. 

“You’re probably right,” Brian answers, tiredly, he needs some sleep, needs some time to breathe. He needs  _ Freddie _ . He needs him to breathe, to live. Freddie needs to know how much Brian loves him. He needs to know how important and needed he is. He needs to know how much he’s worth. He needs to know that they all love him to the ends of the earth, and that they just want him back. 

“Maybe you should try calling him?” Anita proposes. It’s not like he needs to buy himself a plane ticket to do that. It’s just putting in a few numbers. Brian still has Freddie’s contact on his phone, he didn’t have the courage to delete it, even if he’d still remember Freddie’s number. He’ll never forget it. 

“Yeah, I really should,” Brian says, trying to think of something he could say if Freddie answered. Trying to think of words he could let out.  _ I love you _ is the first thing that comes to Brian’s mind.  _ Come back _ is also a good idea. But Brian knows Freddie won’t come back so easily, he won’t believe Brian easily if he’s told how worthy he is. 

“It’s okay.” Anita takes his hand, squeezing his fingers. “You can do this.”

She’s right—and more than that, he  _ needs _ to do this. He needs to bring Freddie back, bring him  _ home _ . He’d be angry if Brian just showed up at his front door—he’s been neglected for months, Brian wouldn’t blame him. A phone call is a good start. Maybe, if he’s lucky, he can coax Freddie back on his own, get him to leave Paul and Munich by himself.

He pulls his phone out of his pocket and finds Freddie’s contact, just staring at it for a long moment. The picture shows Freddie bundled up in blankets on their couch, a cat on his lap and another one wedged beside his head, smiling up at Brian, who’s behind the camera. He’s happy, sweet, content—it’s a full smile, a real one.

Brian just wants him back. Maybe he  _ can _ have him back. For the first time in months, since the day Freddie walked down the stairs and announced that they were over, he feels hope under the pain in his chest.

Taking a deep breath, he taps on Freddie’s number, holding his phone up to his ear. Anita squeezes his hand again in support.

Freddie’s phone rings five times before going to voicemail. Brian doesn’t know what he really expected, but he still feels a slight pang of disappointment. All he gets of Freddie is his recorded message:

“Hello, darling! You’ve got my voicemail. I’ll get back to you when I have a spare moment. Busy, don’t you know!” He sounds breathless, and Brian remembers why—remembers when Freddie recorded this in the first place, the two of them laughing about possible versions in bed, until Freddie had just done one off the cuff.

Immediately, Brian hangs up. His heart’s pounding.

“What’s wrong?” Anita asks, her eyes concerned.

“Nothing,” Brian says, breathless himself. “Nothing, I just—I wasn’t ready.”

“You can do it,” Anita says encouragingly. “Just tell him how much you miss him. He  _ has _ to want to hear that.”

Swallowing, Brian redials Freddie’s number. He’s more prepared to hear his voice this time, even if it’s just the recording—readier for the memories, for the overwhelming feelings.

He misses him  _ so much _ .

“Hey, Freddie,” he says after the beep, throat tight. “It’s—it’s me. Brian.”  _ Stupid, of course he’ll know it’s you. _ “I’m sorry this is the first time I’ve called. I thought you didn’t want me in your life anymore, but I realized that… I can’t stand  _ my _ life without you anymore.” There are tears in his eyes; he blinks, trying to force them back, but they fall anyway. “I miss you so much, Freddie. I  _ love _ you so much. I know I’m being selfish, but I can’t do this without you. I don’t know how to feel, how to live, how to do…  _ anything _ . You’re my whole world.”

Anita squeezes his fingers tightly, smiling at him. Her eyes are suspiciously damp too.

“Please, Freddie. Can we—can we talk about this? Is there any way that… you’d consider coming home?” Brian sniffs, rubbing at his eyes. “Freddie, please. I—I love you. I  _ love you _ . Forever, baby. Will you call me back? Please?” He has to take a deep breath to keep from sobbing, and whispers, one more time, “I love you,” before finally taking the phone away from his ear. Reluctantly, he hangs up.

“That was  _ great _ ,” Anita says, still smiling. “He  _ has _ to call you back after that, Brian.”

Wiping his eyes with the back of his hand, Brian taps into Instagram. Now that he’s heard Freddie’s voice for the first time in so long, he has to  _ see _ him, has to see that he’s all right—or as all right as could be expected, anyway.

There’s a new picture at the top of Freddie’s profile—Freddie in sunglasses and a white tank top, looking over his shoulder at the camera. It’s impossible to see his eyes through the glasses and his mouth is flat and hard. He doesn’t look like the Freddie Brian knows. He looks like he’s sad, and trying to hide it.

Biting his lip, Brian’s eyes automatically flick to the first several comments, and his blood runs cold.

**harry4832:**

_ you should just kill yourself and get it over with, fag _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anita ships Maycury like whoa. We love Anita.
> 
> We also love you guys, because you're awesome! As always, you're the best readers anyone could ask for. You're all as sweet as Freddie! We hope you enjoyed this chapter and we'll see you next time~


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brian's voicemail isn't what Freddie hoped for.

When Freddie opens his eyes, Brian’s right there, next to him, as he’s always been. Propped on one elbow, just looking down at Freddie, watching him with a small smile on his face. The bed is warm, and so soft, and it’s  _ theirs _ —Freddie feels like he hasn’t slept so deeply in months, though he can’t quite remember why. Nothing seems all that important anymore, not with Brian looking at him like that.

“Morning, beautiful,” Brian murmurs, reaching out to brush his fingers through his hair. His touch is so soft, so kind. He doesn’t pull or force or hurt. There’s no memory to back up the feelings, only certainty that Brian  _ won’t _ , that Brian would never.

“Morning,” Freddie whispers. He reaches up, takes Brian’s hand in his, laces their fingers together. The next words leap out before he even knows they’re there: “Do you love me?”

“Why wouldn’t I love you, Freddie?” Brian kisses his knuckles. His lips are soft, familiar. Warm.

“I don’t know,” Freddie says. He’s light inside, almost laughing.

Brian smiles at him. “Is it because you’re a failure?” he asks.

And suddenly, Freddie is cold. His hand in Brian’s is wrong, all wrong, held too tightly. He sucks in a breath; he can’t respond.

“Maybe it’s because you’re a fuckup,” Brian says. “Maybe that’s why I don’t love you. Your music is shitty, isn’t it?”

“I—I don’t know,” Freddie says, his throat tight. “Maybe.”

“If I were you, I would kill myself,” Brian goes on relentlessly. His eyes don’t look much like Brian’s anymore. They’re cold and small and cruel. “How can you live with yourself? It’s a wonder anyone tolerates you.”

“Darling—” He feels tears in his eyes. “Please stop, Bri.”

“Why should I?” Brian asks. “Don’t you want to know the truth? Don’t you want to know why I stopped loving you, why no one will ever love you?” He looks at Freddie’s tears coldly and squeezes his hand tight, so tightly it hurts. “It’s because you’re unlovable,” he says. “You’re childish and you’re a screwup and you’re too much work. You’re lucky I put up with you for as long as I did.”

Freddie covers his face with his free hand, trying to conceal his tears, wanting to hide from Brian’s cold, dark eyes. But a moment later Brian has pried it away, forcing him to look at him, and Freddie’s shivering now. He stifles a sob.

“You should just kill yourself,” Brian says. “The world would be better off without you.”

“ _ Brian, _ ” Freddie says, pleading, though he’s drowned out by a loud vibrating noise. He tries to repeat himself, but when he opens his mouth, all that comes out is the buzzing. Shaking, he closes his eyes, and when he opens them again, he’s on top of his bed in Munich, twisted up uncomfortably, his phone buzzing by his head.

Disoriented, Freddie pushes himself up on one hand, squinting down at his phone in the dark.

_ Incoming Call: Brian _

Unsure of if any of this is real, Freddie takes his phone with a trembling hand. It keeps buzzing, repeatedly, as stressful as a countdown. Freddie’s finger almost touches the button to answer, stupidly, but he falters when Brian’s words come back to his mind.  _ You’re lucky I put up with you for as long as I did. You should just kill yourself.  _

He yanks his hand away from his phone, as if he got burnt, he looks as Brian’s name doesn’t go away. Then leaves his screen, suddenly. Freddie wipes away tears already present on his face, still staring at his phone, as if Brian’s name would come back. He can’t handle hearing Brian say more, tell him everything he never wants to hear. Telling him exactly what he fears, but  _ knows _ deep down. 

_ Unlovable _

A notification pops up, there’s a voicemail, from Brian. He can’t open it, he  _ can’t  _ open it. He can’t bear to hear those words come out from Brian’s mouth. 

Or maybe it’s just Brian, telling him sweet things, just like he used to. Telling him how much he loves him. Maybe it’s Brian, asking him to come back home,  _ home.  _ Maybe it’s Brian telling Freddie he can’t live without him. Maybe—

He can’t risk it. He can’t risk it, opening the message. He’ll be crushed when he realizes he’s been wrong, when Brian will tell him that he doesn’t want him, that he should just  _ kill _ himself. He can’t risk his heart for stupid hopes that will never be true. 

But he has to somehow listen to it. What if it’s something important? What if someone’s hurt? What if there’s important papers to fill out, for Queen? What if it’s about the house? 

Probably not, there’s no way Brian stayed there, there’s now way he could handle a house filled with  _ Freddie _ on the walls, on the furniture, everywhere. Of course Brian wouldn’t want to live somewhere like that. He’s probably already sold everything Freddie left at Garden Lodge, his paintings, the vases from Japan. He probably threw in the thrash or burnt every memory of them together. 

Maybe Paul could help him. Maybe he could help him! He always does, he really is the best person Freddie could ask for as a friend. He’s always honest with him, so he could listen to the voicemail and tell him what’s in it. At least it’ll hurt less, not to have to hear Brian’s voice, to hear his breath on the phone. 

Freddie snatches his phone up and slides off the bed, hurrying out into the hallway. “Paul!” he calls, tremulously. “ _ Paul! _ ”

“Freddie?” There’s Paul, coming out of the office to stand at the base of the stairs, concern painted all over his face. “What’s the matter?”

“I—I got—” Freddie goes down the stairs as quickly as he can, almost slipping in his haste, and thrusts his phone at Paul. “ _ Brian _ called,” he says. Just saying Brian’s name brings the tears back to his eyes.

“ _ Brian? _ ” Paul repeats, surprised, his eyebrows immediately pulling together.

Freddie nods, still holding his phone out. “I couldn’t—I couldn’t listen,” he whispers. “What if… what if he wants me back?”

“After all these months?” Paul asks, gently. “Doesn’t that seem unlikely?”

“I know,” Freddie mumbles. But the bubble of hope in his chest won’t pop, won’t die.  _ What if? What if Brian’s calling to tell me he loves me, to ask me to come home? _

Phoebe appears in the doorway to the kitchen. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing, Phoebe,” Paul says. “Go back to what you were doing.” He takes the phone from Freddie. “Do you want me to listen to this for you? Let you know what he says?”

Freddie nods, wiping his eyes. “Please, darling.”

Paul unlocks Freddie’s phone and taps the voicemail. He turns away from Freddie so he can’t see his face, and Freddie can only hear the vague murmur of Brian’s voice. Just that makes him tremble; he longs to tear the phone from Paul’s hands and press it to his own ear, just  _ listen _ to Brian, but he’s so very afraid.

At last, Paul turns back around. His expression is sad and very, very sorry. “Oh, Freddie,” he says softly, his fingers moving quickly across the phone screen. “I’m so sorry.”

Freddie’s heart lurches. “What? What is it?”

Paul hesitates. “Are you sure you want to know?”

“Tell me!” Freddie orders, and he’s teetering on some tall ledge. He’s about to fall.

“Queen’s auditioning new singers,” Paul says, so gently. “He wanted to tell you in person that they don’t want you back, before you heard it in the news.” He sighs. “He at least has that much decency.” He gives Freddie his phone back, closing his limp hand around it. “I deleted the voicemail. You shouldn’t have to hear that.”

Freddie’s fingers are so shaky that he barely manages to keep his phone in his hand. The words on his screen are blurring before him, the pain doesn’t want to go away, doesn’t want to let him breathe. 

_ They’ve realized _ . They’ve realized how much of a fuckup he is. How much he was holding them back. They’ve realized they can do so much better than him, can find a singer that will be better than he’s ever been. 

He doesn’t hold in the tears anymore. He can’t, can’t stop them, can’t stop the horrible pain that creeps up. He doesn’t want to cry, he doesn’t want to feel anything anymore. Can someone just take all his feelings away? Spare him from all the hurt, all the deception life keeps giving him. He’s bringing this on himself, he knows it, but he wants to ignore it. 

His fingers suddenly tighten around the phone, painfully tight. He needs chaos, he needs everything around him to be as chaotic as it feels inside him. He isn’t sane anymore, he’ll never be again. 

He doesn’t hold in the growl that escapes his mouth, or the shout that shakes his whole body. He’s not thinking, he’s not thinking of how angry Paul will be, of how annoyed Phobe will be, how upset Joe will be. 

His fist hits the nearest wall with an almost satisfying crunch. It hurts so badly, it doesn’t matter, not anymore—it hurts more inside of him. He faintly hears Paul’s voice yelling his name in surprise. But he’s only focused on the blood dripping on his hand, the blood that quickly turns his whole fist red. 

_ You should just kill yourself _

_ Shut up, _ he tells himself when the words come up in his mind. 

But that’s what everybody seems to want, that’s what Brian (  _ Brian  _ ) wants. He wants him dead. Dead and gone. Maybe he should consider it. It’s what Brian wants, after all; he’s the one that matters the most. 

And to think a few years back, Brian would have told him—lied to him—that they’re all wrong about him, spoken endlessly about how perfect and talented and beautiful he is. And to think that Freddie started believing him. No, nobody can even bear to look at him, nobody can bear to be near to him. Nobody will  _ ever _ want him. 

This is just the way things will always be. 

“Freddie!” Large, soft hands close over his bloody fist, smoothing out his fingers. “Freddie,” Phoebe repeats, horrified, “we need to patch this up. Does it hurt?”

Freddie looks down at his hand, at the blood leaking from his split knuckles. “Yes,” he says, distantly.

“We have a first aid kit in the kitchen.” Gently, Phoebe slides his phone out of his grip, putting it into his own pocket. “Come on,” he says, tugging so softly on Freddie’s arm. “Come on, let’s go.”

There’s nothing else to do, nowhere else to go; no one wants him. Freddie follows Phoebe from the front hall, leaving behind a stunned Paul, and it’s as though someone else entirely is moving his body. The only thing that feels real is the pain in his hand.

Phoebe sits Freddie at the island, patting his shoulder, and bustles to one of the cabinets. He pulls a white box from the top shelf, popping open the latches. “I’m sorry,” he says, turning back around with a small roll of white bandages and a fistful of antiseptic packets. “This will hurt more.”

“That’s fine,” Freddie says. He doesn’t care anymore.

Carefully, Phoebe rips open the packets, pulling out wet antiseptic wipes. He dabs at Freddie’s hand, cautiously cleaning up the blood. “It doesn’t look too bad,” he says, relief obvious in his voice. “I don’t think you’ll need stitches.”

Freddie stares down at his hand and doesn’t reply.

Phoebe works in silence for several more minutes, finally winding soft white bandages around Freddie’s knuckles. “Freddie,” he says softly. “Can I say something?”

It doesn’t matter; nothing matters. Freddie just shrugs.

“You have so much talent,” Phoebe says quietly. He ties the bandages off, pats Freddie’s hand like he can take the pain away with a touch. “You shouldn’t waste it. Don’t throw it away.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The only person we hate writing more than Paul is Harry.
> 
> Phoebe, on the other hand, is a sweetheart, as are all of you! Thank you so much for your continued support. We hope you enjoyed (well, for a given value of "enjoy") this latest chapter, and we'll see you next time!


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ronnie speaks up.

“All right,” Ronnie says, banging into John’s office, “this has gone on long enough.”

“Sorry?” John blinks up at her, trying to refocus his eyes. He’s been focusing all morning on a circuit board, soldering it back together—it’s something he  _ can _ fix, something he can change for the better. “What’s gone on long enough?”

“This thing with Freddie,” Ronnie says impatiently. She holds out her phone, demandingly. “ _ Look _ at this. Look and tell me he’s not miserable!”

John takes it, looking down at the small, bright screen. He recognizes Instagram, again, though what Ronnie’s been doing on there he has no idea. Neither of them have an account. She has it open to a picture of Freddie, apparently taken on the street, in the act of putting his sunglasses back on. His eyes are dark, haunted, exhausted, the skin below them bruised purple. He obviously hasn’t slept in days, or at least not well. The line of his mouth is tight and unhappy.

_ @FreddieMercury’s new album obviously not going well _ reads the accompanying post.

“Look at him!” Ronnie says, jabbing her finger at the screen. “God, I don’t know him as well as you do and even I can tell that he’s not well! Why are you letting this  _ go on? _ ”

John’s hand tightens on her phone. “ _ He _ made the decision to leave—”

“Like he did last time?” she interrupts. “You told me about it. Back when we were still dating, remember? He just up and left one day, and later you found out that—”

“—he thought we were going to kick him out,” John finishes for her. He stares down at Freddie, sick to his stomach. Is that what happened? Is that what went wrong? Did Brian have absolutely  _ nothing _ to do with it? “Oh, god, Freddie,” he whispers.

“Go and get him. That’s what you did last time, isn’t it? Go and bring him back!” Ronnie points at the door. She’s almost shouting. “Get on a flight to Munich  _ right now _ . Bring him home.”

He lurches to his feet, heart pounding. “Ronnie—”

“You don’t have time to talk!” she cries, seizing his shoulders and steering him towards the door. “Just grab your keys and wallet! I know where your passport is. Wait for me at the front door.”

They run in opposite directions, and the moment Ronnie presses his passport into his hands John’s in the car and away, driving for Heathrow as though his life depended on it. As though  _ Freddie’s _ life depended on it.

_ Freddie. _

Why didn’t he realize sooner? All the signs are the same—Freddie pulling away from them, distancing himself, breaking away from the band. He’s so insecure, John should have  _ remembered _ . Should have looked, should have seen.  _ Should have, should have, should have. _ How can he call himself a friend, when he so obviously sucks at it? When he’ll let Freddie drown thousands of miles away without lifting a finger to help?

Well, he’s done with that. He’ll pull Freddie from that life if it’s the last thing he does.

He’s so preoccupied with these thoughts that it’s only when he’s in the air, on the way to Frankfurt—the closest airport in Germany he could fly to on the shortest notice—that he realizes he should probably call Roger. And maybe Phoebe, or Joe. Someone who  _ isn’t _ Paul who will give him Freddie’s address, since he doesn’t know where he’s going besides the general area of  _ Munich. _

When the plane lands, the first person he dials is Phoebe. He hopes his number is still current.

After two rings, someone picks up. “Hello? John?” Phoebe says, voice low, like he’s trying not to be heard.

“Oh, thank god, Phoebe.” His heart is in his throat. Peter is close, maybe meters away from Freddie. John will be there too in barely any time. “I need your help,” he says, desperate. 

“How can I help you, John?” He sounds as if he doesn’t expect much, like there’s no way he would ask something about Freddie. He’s been such a bad friend. He’s ashamed, he should have been there. He should have been there to make Freddie understand how much they want,  _ need _ him. 

“You need to tell me the address of where Freddie lives, please.” His voice is pleading, he needs to go find Freddie, he needs to make sure he’s safe, home,  _ happy. _ “I screwed up, we  _ all  _ did, but please, let me fix it.” He’ll do anything, he needs to make Freddie understand, to make him believe how much he’s worth. 

There’s a few seconds of silence before Phoebe speaks up again, still not loudly, “I’m glad you’re coming. I—he’s miserable John. I’ve never seen him like that. I think Paul is making it even worse. I’ll text you the address, okay?”

John feels sick at the thought of what Paul must be telling him, what he must make him believe. Freddie’s always believed him, just like he believes all those horrible comments, there’s no way he’s stopped now. “Thank you so much, Phoebe,” John answers, he just wants to be there now, to hold Freddie in his arms again, tell him all he needs to know—that he must come back. 

John hangs up the phone eventually, after thanking Peter more times. After a few minutes, he receives a message, with an address. This is where Freddie is, where he’s been for so long, for  _ months _ . He should have been there way before, he should have brought Freddie back home as soon as he left.

He needs to call Roger now. Hopefully, at least he won’t want to kill Brian anymore. But he’ll probably be mad at John for not letting him come with him. John needs to be as quick as possible. Freddie already spent enough time there. The less time, the better. 

Hurrying to the connecting flight to Munich, John dials Roger’s number. He has to call twice before Roger answers.

“What?” Roger says grumpily, not even bothering with a polite greeting. “What’s so bloody important?”

“I’m in Frankfurt,” John pants. He skids to a halt in front of the new gate, peering at the line of people waiting to board. “My flight to Munich boards in a few minutes. I’m going to get Freddie back, Rog.”

“Are you  _ kidding _ me?!” Roger exclaims.

“I’m sorry, Roger, really, I just ran to the airport. I wasn’t thinking.” Over Roger’s continued offended yelps, John explains—about Ronnie’s revelation, the picture she’d shown him, his conversation with Phoebe. By the time he finishes, Roger’s swearing instead. “It all makes  _ sense _ , Rog,” he says, flashing his ticket distractedly at the gate agent. “It had nothing to do with Brian at all—he’s probably as confused as we are.”

“Fuck, fuck,  _ fuck, _ ” Roger says. “Oh, fuck,  _ Freddie. _ ”

“I know, Roger.”

“Fuck!”

“I  _ know _ .”

“Call me when you get there, Deaky, you understand me?” Roger says, a real threat in his voice. “I want to talk to him the moment you have him back.”

“I know. Look, Roger, I have to hang up—”

“Okay, but I’m  _ waiting _ by the phone. Text me the details of your return flight, I’ll meet you at the airport.”

“Right. Sounds great.” John slides into his seat. “I’ll talk to you later, yeah?”

“You’d better,” Roger says darkly, and hangs up.

The flight to Munich is short, and from there John rents a car for the short distance to Freddie’s place. His heart races as he makes the drive, looking at streets Freddie has walked, alone and miserable, for months.

They should never have let him go. They should have sat him down, at that meeting all those months ago, and  _ forced _ him to stay.

And finally, he’s arrived.

John finds a parking spot around the block, forgetting to lock the car in his hurry to reach Freddie’s building. Luckily, a little old lady is going through the door with the shopping when he reaches it; he holds it open for her, then races up the stairs to Freddie’s door.

He’s so late, but maybe he’s just in time.

Without hesitating, he hammers on the door.

Phoebe opens it, and from the relief on his face, John can tell that he wasn’t entirely certain that John would actually show up. “John,” he breathes. “You really came.”

“Of course I did,” John says, stepping inside. “Where is he?”

Phoebe points to a small flight of stairs. “Up there,” he says.

John nods, before walking across the house to the stairs. Each step seems to take an eternity. His legs are heavy when he walks up the stairs, shaky. He’s never been so nervous to see his best friend.  _ It’s just Freddie, he’s the same as ever _ . At least that’s what he tells himself. Because he’s not the same, probably not the bubbly and happy Freddie he’s always seemed to be. 

Has it always been a lie? Has he been hiding his feelings for years?

He knocks on the door of what seems to be the main bedroom. “Come on in, Paul.” It’s his voice, the voice John’s longed for for months. But it sounds sad, it doesn’t have as much life as it used to. 

So John opens the door slowly, his heart is beating so quickly. He can feel himself sweat.  _ It’s just Freddie, it’s just him. _ When he’s in the room, the door still open, he looks around for a second before his eyes fall on him.  _ Freddie.  _

He looks even more terrible in real life. His wide eyes are red, looking so tired. John notices there’s no longer that spark that was there when he looked at Brian, when he was in London. There are the same dark circles as in the picture Veronica showed him. 

“J-John?” Freddie stutters, haunted eyes widening. “W-what are you doing here?”

He looks as if he’s been alone for so long, hidden from any form of affection, of love. Like he’s been away from everything. Well, he has been. He hid away from everyone, except Paul, who wouldn’t ever give him the love he deserves. It’s no surprise that when he looks at John, he looks as if he’s the only person he’s seen in months, the only one that could possibly bring him any happiness. 

“Freddie,” John breathes out. He walks to him. Freddie is sitting on his bed, his phone in one hand. He wants to hug him so bad, to take him in his arms and never  _ ever _ let him go again. He won’t let him get to this point again. He won’t let him leave again. 

So he does end up hugging him. Freddie is rigid, like he doesn’t know how to hug anymore. He keeps his hands on the side of his own body, nervous to put them anywhere else. John holds him tightly, as hard as he can. 

“I missed you, oh god I missed you,” John whispers. He can feel tears prickling at his eyes.

He pulls away, trying to form any words, but he’s stuck. He’s stuck between just telling him to come home or asking him to explain to tell him everything he feels, everything he’s ever thought during the last months. But he doesn’t get the chance to talk. 

“W-why are you here?” Freddie asks again. He looks like he’s seen a ghost.

“You’re coming home, you’re coming back to London with me, Freddie.”

Freddie stares at him. His shock is obvious. “What do you mean?” he asks, in a sort of numb, distant way. “You don’t want me back. Brian said.”

“What do you mean,  _ don’t want you back? _ ” John repeats, confused, and that’s when Paul crashes into the room.

“Freddie,” he pants, his hand on the door. “John, what—what are you doing here?”

John pulls himself upright, but doesn’t let go of Freddie. He can’t, can’t bear to take his hands from his shoulders. “I’m here to bring Freddie home,” he states, and hears Freddie’s sharp intake of breath.

“Deaky,” he whispers, and tugs on John’s sleeve with shaking, questioning fingers. His eyes shine with tears.

“What is it, Freddie?” John asks, turning to him, rubbing his shoulders gently.

“I thought—I thought you were looking for a new vocalist,” Freddie says, his voice cracking. He swallows, hard, tears sliding down his cheeks.

John frowns. “No? Why would we do that? We’ve been waiting for you, Freddie—you’re the only one we want. We miss you so much.”

“But Brian called,” Freddie protests, his voice vanishingly small.

“Did you hear him say that?” John asks, still frowning in confusion. “Did he leave a message?”

“He did, but…” Freddie trails off. His eyes slowly fix on Paul.

John turns, and Paul’s gone white. “Did you listen to the message for him?” he asks, low and deadly. “It didn’t really say that, did it?”

“Freddie, don’t listen to him,” Paul says, ignoring John entirely and addressing Freddie only. “They’re just trying to use you—”

“Bullshit!” John says. He turns back to Freddie. “Freddie, come with me,” he says desperately, taking his hands. “Roger’s waiting for you.  _ I’m _ waiting for you. Come home with me, please? We can talk about this.”

Freddie’s crying in earnest, and he doesn’t seem to know how to respond. He wipes at his face with a trembling hand; impulsively, John hugs him tightly, holding him close.

“ _ Please _ , Freddie,” he whispers. “We love you so much.”

For a long, terrible moment, there’s nothing but silence, which even Paul doesn’t break. They’re both holding their breath, waiting to see what Freddie will say.

In the end, Freddie doesn’t say anything. He just nods into John’s shoulder.

_ Yes. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The ladies in this story have all the sense. Sometimes you have to be outside a situation to see it properly.
> 
> We hope you all enjoyed this latest chapter and we'll see you next time!


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brian does what he should have done a long time ago.

Brian can’t sleep.

His mind is full of Freddie—Freddie laughing. Freddie sleeping beside him. Freddie trying to help him cook. Freddie cuddling the cats. Freddie quiet. Freddie crying. Freddie  _ leaving _ .

A voicemail isn’t enough. It  _ hasn’t _ been enough. Freddie hasn’t called back—hasn’t done anything to indicate that he’s even received the message. He’s absolutely silent, as silent as he’s been the past few months, and suddenly Brian can’t  _ stand _ it.

His life is so empty, so  _ meaningless _ without Freddie. Cold and colorless and grey. He’s been sleepwalking ever since Freddie walked out, and now he’s awake—he’s  _ feeling _ again, and he can feel the pain. Freddie’s the only thing that will soothe it, heal it, turn the pain to pleasure, to joy.

He’s the only way Brian will be whole again.

Maybe he should wait for Freddie to come to him, but it’s impossible. Freddie’s stubborn, and Brian is weak, Brian is hurting. He wants to hold Freddie in his arms again, beg him to come home in person. That’s what it took, last time—he remembers, vividly, the journey to Freddie’s parents’ house, the talk in their living room. Perhaps, he realizes, that’s what Freddie needs: a demonstration of love, proof of devotion. Traveling thousands of miles to Germany will say a lot more than a voicemail over the phone ever could.

And then Brian can  _ see _ him, see how he’s doing in person, rather than just through photos on Twitter and Instagram. Those photos worry him enough, but perhaps they’re wrong—perhaps Freddie is all right. Maybe he’s better off than he appears.

Really, though, Brian doesn’t think so.

He pushes himself off the couch with sudden energy, and packs a small carry-on with deliberation. He’ll prove his love to Freddie, whatever it takes—prove that Freddie’s  _ worthy _ of love, regardless of what Paul has told him.

This is too important to trust to a voicemail.

On the way to the airport, he calls Anita.

“Oh, that’s a good idea,” she says when he explains what he’s doing. “I think he’ll really appreciate that. Does your house need tidying up? Do you need me to call your housekeeper?”

Brian feels a surge of gratitude for Anita. He’d never have gotten this far without her. “I can do it,” he says. “Thank you, Anita.”

“Of course,” she says earnestly. “I hope you bring him home.”

“I hope so too.” He clears his tightening throat, forcing back tears. “You’ll meet him soon, if he comes back with me.”

“I look forward to it.” Anita’s perfectly sincere, as always. “Take care, all right? Text me when you land so I know how you’re doing.”

“I will,” Brian whispers, “I promise.”

He hangs up, and then, while he’s waiting for the plane to Munich to board, looks through his contacts for someone who’s still likely to be with Freddie and who will know his address. Joe’s the first one to come up—Freddie would never send him away. Probably.

Holding his breath, Brian clicks on the contact and holds his phone to his ear. It rings a few times, before, suddenly there’s a voice: “Hello? Brian?”

At least Joe still has his contact on his phone. He’s been stupid, not thinking he could have done this months ago, brought Freddie back home the day he left. Brian wouldn’t have had the courage. But he has it now, he needs to have his love back, his  _ soulmate _ . Freddie is his soulmate. 

“Joe, you can’t believe how happy I am to hear your voice,” Brian says. He truly is happy. He’s getting closer and closer to getting Freddie back. He  _ will _ get him back, he won’t accept anything else. 

“It’s been a while,” Joe says, almost sounding breathless. “Why are you calling?” He seems defensive. Joe doesn’t know either why Freddie left. He probably thinks that it’s Brian’s fault too. It probably _ is _ his fault, for not showing enough how much he loves Freddie. 

“I’m coming to see Freddie,” Brian declares, he doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t have a tremble in his voice, even if he still gets tears in his eyes thinking about Freddie in his arms, his head in his neck—

“Oh—well that’s—that’s great.” Joe sounds surprised. 

(It’s wonderful, really, but Joe didn’t expect Brian to ever come. He lost hope months ago that he would ever come get Freddie and bring him home.)

“Do you know the address?” he asks. 

“Well that’s why I called you, in fact. Do you mind giving it to me?” Brian holds his breath again. There’s not much chance Joe won’t give him the address, but he still gets nervous. There’s not really anyone else he could call. Well, there’s Phoebe but he’s by Freddie’s side often so it would be harder to get a hold of him. 

“Yeah, of course, let me text it to you. I can also share with you the map from the airport to here? So you won’t have to search it yourself.” 

“Please, that would be incredible, Joe. Thank you so much,” Brian answers. He regrets not being close to Joe as much as Freddie was close to him. He really is a great friend. 

Before either of them can hang up, Joe speaks up one last time: “I’m really,  _ really _ glad you’re coming, Brian.”

“I am too,” he answers quietly. 

They say goodbye to each other and hang up the phone. When the plane is ready to welcome people in it, Brian makes sure he’s in there first; it won’t change much, really, but it makes Brian feel slightly better. 

It’s only when he’s sat in his seat that it starts getting overwhelming. When he remembers Freddie’s head on his shoulder, the last time they went on tour. He remembers the small snores he let out, the ones Freddie denied, the ones Brian longs to hear again. He remembers Freddie looking at him with the sweetest eyes, silently asking him to kiss him. He remembers Freddie holding out his hand, desperately wanting Brian to hold it, to never let go of it. 

He needs him back, so badly, he needs to have him by his side, to look in his eyes and tell him how much he loves him, how much he needs him. He’ll tell him everyday, every hour, every  _ second _ until Freddie believes it. He’ll do anything to convince him. And he’ll never let go of his hand again, he’ll never let his head get the best of him, he’ll never let him leave again.  _ Never. _

The flight to Munich passes by both too slowly and too quickly. He longs to see Freddie—the time passes so slowly. He’s afraid of what Freddie will rightfully say—the time passes so quickly. Brian’s all in a muddle by the time the plane lands, so he focuses on the one thing he’s sure of.

_ Freddie _ .

He rents a car at the airport, and if the lady at the rental counter gives him an odd look, he dismisses it as the penalty of being both famous and somewhat recognizable. Brian pulls up Joe’s map, setting his phone on the dashboard so he can see it as he drives. He doesn’t want to miss a single turn.

When he pulls up outside Freddie’s apartment building, his heart is hammering in his throat. He’s  _ so close _ to seeing Freddie again—seeing him in person after all these months, maybe able to  _ touch _ him, hold him close. He just stares at the building for a long moment, hands tight on the wheel, before he forces himself out of the car, carefully locking it behind him.

He’s come all this way. He’s not leaving without Freddie.

A young couple hovers in the doorway, whispering to each other, and they let Brian in after glancing at him twice. They probably know who he is, by the widening of their eyes. Well, whatever—he’s not going to worry about the pictures that will be all over social media tomorrow. He doesn’t care about that right now. His only focus is on his love, somewhere upstairs, miserable, in agony.

Setting his jaw, Brian hammers on Freddie’s front door. He’ll get in if he has to batter the thing down himself.

“ _ Christ _ , what is it  _ now? _ ” Paul demands, ripping it open.

Really, Brian should have expected to see him, but it’s still a punch to the gut—Paul, the poisonous snake, standing there larger than life and twice as real, though he doesn’t seem as smug as usual. Rather, he seems harried, stressed, almost anxious. It’s a good look on him, or it would be if Brian had time to appreciate it.

“Oh,” Paul says, taking a step back. “Brian.”

“Yes,” Brian says, taking a step forward. “ _ Brian _ .”

“Look, Brian—”

“Where’s Freddie?” Brian demands. He doesn’t have time for this.

“I was just doing my job,” Paul perseveres, bravely. “You understand that, right?”

Brian ignores him. He steps fully into the entryway, cups his hands around his mouth, and shouts, “ _ Freddie! _ ”

“He’s not here.” It’s Phoebe, appearing from around a door that appears to lead to the kitchen.

“Well, where is he, then?” Brian asks, barely managing to temper his voice. He’s suddenly frightened.

“Well…” Phoebe looks at his watch. “In London by now, probably?”

While Brian gapes at him, Joe manifests over his shoulder, looking ever-so-slightly contrite. “John came for him,” he says.

“ _ John? _ ” Brian repeats.

“Your John Deacon,” Joe says. His eyes flick to Paul and away again.

John—good old Deaky. Trust him to sweep Freddie away on the very day Brian decided to rescue him. Still, Brian can’t help but smile, because Freddie’s  _ safe _ , Freddie’s  _ home _ .

“He completely overreacted,” Paul snaps. “Freddie didn’t want to go, John just lied to him about what you three were going to do anyway!”

Brian turns to him slowly. “What do you mean?”

“Paul listened to your message for Freddie,” Phoebe says suddenly, and, ignoring Paul’s shout of “ _ Peter! _ ”, he goes on: “He told him that Queen was looking for a new singer.”

Brian’s ears ring as though Phoebe had shouted. He looks into Paul’s white, angry face and knows in an instant that Phoebe is telling the truth. In another moment, he’s lunged forward, pulling his hand back, and then he punches Paul square in the face.

Paul reels back, clutching at his nose. There’s some blood. Brian’s knuckles are stinging.

“ _ Fuck _ you,” Brian spits. “How  _ dare _ you! As  _ if _ we would ever replace Freddie—how could you tell him such a thing?”

Joe steps forward, resting a hand cautiously on Brian’s shoulder, and Paul sags against the wall, still holding his face.

“You would have done it anyway,” he says bitterly. “He would never have come back.”

“Because of  _ you! _ ” Brian shouts. “Because  _ you _ told him we didn’t want him!”

Paul dabs at his nose, bright red blood on his fingertips. “He’s a fragile little thing, isn’t he? It’s so easy to persuade him that he  _ owes _ you. Is that how you got him into bed? By telling him he wouldn’t get anything better?”

Brian makes to swing again—he’s never been a violent man but something about Paul brings it out in him—but Joe grabs his arm and holds him back.

“ _ Fuck _ you,” he says again. It’s all he can think of. He can’t find stronger words for Paul.

“It was so easy to convince him,” Paul says, and he’s staring at Brian with mean little eyes. “He let me fuck him within two weeks of leaving you, do you know that?”

Brian falters a bit, but he still responds angrily, “Do you really think I would believe you?” He’s furious, he terribly wants to hit him again. He doesn’t like how Paul makes him feel,  _ violent,  _ but he wants to make him pay for everything he’s done to Freddie.

“He is very needy, isn’t he? Always asking for affection. It does get very tiring, don’t you think?” 

Brian doesn’t like the smile on Paul’s face, how proud of himself he looks, happy that he found the more sensitive part of Brian, just to poke it repeatedly. 

“Don’t talk about him like that,” he snarls. Thank god Joe is still holding him back or he would already be punching the life out of him. Freddie wouldn’t have sex with him, would he?

“Did he ask you too if you care about him? I can’t believe you endured him for so long, Brian, he’s a lot to handle.”

Freddie never asked anyone else something like that. He never asked Brian if he loved him in front of others, he was too shy to do so, too embarrassed. It must be true then. They really did have sex. 

“What did you make him do?” Brian knows Freddie, probably better than anyone else. No matter what the papers, people say, he does prefer to have sex with someone he loves, someone he’s with. Why would he have sex with Paul then?

“He gets insecure so easily that you can just convince him  _ how much work he is everyday _ . It’s a wonder, try, you’ll see, he’ll get on his knees, don’t worry,” Paul replies, his eyes filled with a fire that shouldn’t be there. 

Brian’s heart beats louder as he realizes, as he can feel fury filling all his veins. It’s all his fault. It’s all  _ Paul’s  _ fault. He’s the one who ruined everything, the one who made Freddie think all these things. He’s the one who made him miserable. 

“You fucking bastard!” If Joe would let him go, Paul would already be dead by now. “Let me go, Joe, the guy needs a good fucking  _ beating _ .” Joe doesn’t let go and it makes Brian even angrier. He can’t believe he let this happen, that he let Paul get in Freddie’s head when he promised himself he would protect Freddie from him. 

“Brian, leave it and go look for Freddie,  _ please _ . Paul isn’t worth it,” Phoebe answers, but he doesn’t sound any calmer than Brian. He’ll probably be glad to throw a punch himself when Brian’s gone. 

_ Freddie _ . 

He needs to find Freddie, to talk to him, to let him know that he’s perfect, that he doesn’t need to do anything, that he doesn’t  _ owe _ anyone anything. That Brian loves him,  _ so bad.  _

He needs to go back to London.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *throws Paul in the trash* *dusts off hands*
> 
> We hope you all enjoyed Paul getting punched! We will see you next time~


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Freddie arrives in London.

The first thing Freddie sees when he exits customs is Roger’s drawn, anxious face, standing out like a shout in a crowd of strangers. He’s hovering, standing on his tiptoes, clearly looking for John and Freddie, and when he spots Freddie his whole face goes white.

Freddie hesitates just outside the sliding door. John’s still somewhere behind him, and he’s terrified, suddenly, of what Roger will do—what he’ll say. He’ll be so angry at Freddie for leaving, he’ll  _ shout _ —Freddie hates being shouted at—

Roger rushes at him, and Freddie flinches back, but before he can get far Roger has swept him up in a firm embrace, burying his face in Freddie’s shoulder. “ _ Freddie, _ ” Roger says, his voice broken. “Oh god, oh  _ god, Freddie _ —”

Tears spring into Freddie’s eyes, and he can’t help hugging Roger back—clinging to him, really. He’s missed Roger  _ so much _ . He feels so familiar against Freddie and he holds him as tightly as ever, like he’ll never let Freddie go again, and for now—just for this moment—Freddie lets himself believe it. “Rog,” he whispers.

“ _ Freddie, _ ” Roger repeats, and he pulls back, but only slightly, and shakes Freddie by the shoulders. “How  _ could _ you?” he says. He’s crying, they’re both crying. “How could you  _ leave me _ like that? God, Fred—I was so  _ worried _ —” He crushes Freddie close again, squeezes him with all the strength in his deceptively slender arms. “You could have at least called me back,” he says, choked.

“I’m sorry,” Freddie whispers, stricken. Roger’s angry—he knew he would be angry—but he’s holding Freddie so tightly, just like he always wants to be held. He’s confused.

“I thought you  _ hated _ me,” Roger confesses. He’s still crying, Freddie can tell; his tears fall on the side of Freddie’s neck.

“I could never hate you, Rog—”

“What was I supposed to  _ think _ , when my best friend wouldn’t speak to me?” Roger hugs him, if possible, even tighter. “God, Freddie, you can’t do that to me ever again,” he says raggedly.

“Everything all right?” It’s John, newly arrived from customs himself.

“ _ You _ ,” Roger says, not letting Freddie go. “I can’t believe you went to get Freddie  _ without me _ .”

“I forgot, Roger, I’m sorry.”

Roger grumbles under his breath, then looks at Freddie properly. “You’re coming home with me,” he says decisively. “ _ I’m _ taking care of you now. Okay?”

He’s so serious, so earnest, and his hands on Freddie are firm but gentle. Freddie doesn’t know what he did to deserve this dream. He nods, unable to speak, looking at the floor.

“Thank Christ,” Roger says. He hugs Freddie again, fiercely. “It’ll be like the old days, Freddie. You’ll see.”

Freddie doesn’t really believe it’ll be like the old days. He’s happier than ever to be able to see Roger again and he can’t believe he gets to hug him again, but it’s not the same. He’s happy Roger is willing to let him live with him, but it’s not where Freddie wants to be. He’s happy Roger is holding him, but it’s not the right arms around him, the right scent. 

_ Brian.  _

Maybe Brian won’t want him back, even if they weren’t searching for new singers, Brian is probably with Anita now, he’s probably very happy with her, more than he would ever be with him. It’s not because the boys want him back that suddenly he really is good enough. Brian will still want a family. He’ll never be able to give him that. 

It’ll be hard, it’ll be excruciating to watch Brian be in love with someone else. To have to be in a studio with him, knowing he can’t walk up to him and ask him for a kiss or lean in for a hug. Freddie will never be able to find anyone else again. 

It’ll probably hurt more than being away. 

He lets himself grip onto Roger again, keep him as close as possible. At least he’ll get to have this. He’ll get to have his best friend, caring for him. He’ll get to have someone taking care of him. Paul did care for him too, but Roger doesn’t mind the hugs as much, or at least he doesn’t say it if it annoys him. But there will always be a hole to fill in his heart, one that only Brian can fill. 

He needs to hold onto Roger and John as much as possible, to enjoy it while it lasts. Until they leave too, until they have families to take care of that are more important than he will ever be. He needs to enjoy every single moment, just to be able to remember it when they’re gone, just to have something to hold onto. 

“Come on,” John says gently, beckoning to the two of them. He’s valiantly ignoring the staring people in the crowd, though Freddie knows how much he hates being in the spotlight. John’s trying so hard, all for Freddie’s sake.

It turns out that Roger took an Uber to get to the airport, so they all go back to John’s car and pile in, John behind the wheel and Roger in the back with Freddie. John gets on the road to Roger’s house and they’ve just turned onto the motorway when John’s phone rings.

John fumbles in his pocket, pulling it out and putting it to his ear. “Hello?” There’s a pause, and Freddie sees John glance at him in the rearview mirror. “Yes, we’re in London.”

“Who is it?” Roger asks sharply.

“It’s…” John looks at Freddie again. “It’s Brian.”

Freddie’s heart lurches. “Brian?” he blurts out. ( _ Brian. _ ) “Why is Brian calling?”

John listens to his phone, then says, “He went looking for you in Munich. He’s in the airport in Paris right now, on his way back.”

Brian  _ looked _ for him? He also went to Munich, just like John—just for Freddie? “He came for  _ me? _ ” he whispers.

“He wants to talk to you, Freddie,” John says cautiously. “If you want to talk to him, of course. You don’t have to.”

He could speak to Brian? Right now? Hear his voice—listen to him speak, listen to him breathe?  _ Brian? _

Freddie holds out his hand, hardly aware of what he’s doing, and John hands his phone over. He puts it to his ear, listening, and he can hear Brian’s breath. “Brian?” he whispers.

Brian gasps. “ _ Freddie, _ ” he says hoarsely. “Oh, Freddie, thank god—thank god. Are you all right?”

“I’m fine.”

“Are you really?” Brian huffs, then says, “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to push you.”

“You’re not.” Freddie doesn’t know what else to say. It seems unreal that he’s on the phone with  _ Brian _ .

“I want to talk to you, Freddie,” Brian says, earnest. “For real, I mean. In person. Not just over the phone. Will you let me? Can I come see you?”

Freddie closes his eyes and imagines it. Imagines seeing Brian again and not being able to touch him, or tuck himself under Brian’s arm, or kiss him. It’ll hurt—hurt more than anything ever did in Munich. That’s why he ran that far in the first place, to avoid seeing Brian again.

But now that Brian’s asked—all these months later, Brian-less months later—there’s only one possible answer. Freddie is weak.

“Of course,” he says quietly. “I—I’d be happy to see you, darling.”

Brian lets out a breath. He seems relieved. “Thank you,” he says. “I’ll come to you as soon as I land. Where will you be?”

Freddie glances at Roger, who’s staring at him intently. “At Roger’s, I think.”

“Okay. I’ll meet you there, if I can?”

Freddie nods. It takes him a moment to remember that he’s on the phone, that Brian can’t see him. “Yes,” he whispers. “You can.”

“Then I’ll see you soon,” Brian says softly. “In a couple of hours, all right?”

“All right,” Freddie repeats.

“Okay.” Brian hesitates for a moment, then says: “I’ve missed you so much, Freddie.”

“I’ve missed you too, Bri…Brian,” Freddie answers, correcting himself when he remembers it’s a sweet name he used to call Brian when they  _ were _ together. He hasn’t got the privilege now. He has to stop himself from muttering a few words hovering on the tip of his tongue:  _ I love you. _ This isn’t what Brian wants. He probably only wants to talk to him face to face to tell him that he’s with Anita now. That he’s moved on. 

“Bye, see you later, Freddie,” Brian whispers. Freddie savors the sound of his name on Brian’s lips, repeating it in his head until it goes away. 

“Bye,” he says before waiting a few seconds and then hanging up. 

He passes John’s phone back to him, doing his best to ignore the look Roger is giving him. He can see it from the corner of his eye, but he can’t look at Roger. He prefers to look out the window and hope Brian is still thinking about him, about his voice, just as much as Freddie is. He hopes he’s imagining their bodies close again, each other’s scent mixing. He hopes Brian is thinking about kissing him again, about the feeling of Freddie’s lips on his own. 

He knows he’ll be disappointed, that all the scenarios in his head will never happen, that they’re only dreams. Brian doesn’t have the same script as Freddie. He’s probably thinking of Anita, of a small waist between his hands, just like the one Freddie used to have, the one he doesn’t have anymore. Brian is probably thinking of red painted lips on his own. He’s probably thinking of hands with painted nails, just like Freddie had too, but doesn’t have anymore. 

There’s no  _ Freddie and Brian _ in the same sentence for Brian anymore. There never will be again. 

Freddie keeps looking out the car window as he feels tears prickling at his eyes. He’s only realizing now how much it’ll really hurt. He doesn’t know what came over him. Why did he agree to meet Brian? Why did he agree to leave Munich? Paul could hold him, for a few seconds at least, until he gets tired of him. At least he could let Freddie touch him,  _ please  _ him. Brian will never want his filthy hands on him again. 

Seeing Brian again will hurt horribly. 

The rest of the car journey passes in a blur, with Roger speaking to him softly and John looking silently out the windshield. Freddie can’t believe that he thought he could do this—that he thought he could come back and stay in one piece. He’s already crumbling; this will break him.

At last, John pulls up outside Roger’s massive house. Roger takes Freddie’s hand. “Come on, Freddie,” he says. “Let’s go inside and get a drink, yeah?”

That’s when Freddie realizes he’s been crying for at least a quarter of an hour, tears silently rolling down his cheeks. He wipes his eyes and meekly follows Roger into the house, letting him steer him onto a couch and press a vodka tonic into his hands.

“We can tell Brian not to come, if it makes you this upset,” Roger says anxiously, sitting close beside him, putting a hand on his shoulder. John, hovering behind the couch, looks just as concerned.

“I can call him back,” John offers, “tell him not to come.”

Freddie shakes his head. He tips some of the vodka down his throat, the familiar burn soothing him. “No, it’s all right,” he croaks. “I’ll have to see him at some point.”

“It doesn’t have to be  _ today _ ,” Roger says.

“Today, tomorrow,” Freddie says, “what does it matter?” Brian will leave him regardless. It doesn’t matter—if he wants to bring Queen back together, he’ll have to learn how to see Brian with someone else.

Roger and John exchange glances. John comes around the arm of the couch and sits down on his other side.

They sit close, huddled together, until there’s a knock on the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's a better day for Roger! Poor baby needed his Freddie back.
> 
> We hope you all enjoyed and we will see you next time~


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brian and Freddie talk.

John gets up to answer the door, even though it’s Roger’s house, because Roger doesn’t look like he’s planning on leaving Freddie’s side come hell or high water. Roger actually takes Freddie’s hand as John leaves the room, and Freddie’s grateful—he’s so frightened for John’s return. He’d spoken such bold words, saying it doesn’t matter when he sees Brian again, but it does matter, it  _ does _ .

He wants the past few months to never have happened. He wants Brian to come in and sweep him into a hug. He wants to be held, kissed, as though Brian still loves him.

All impossible things.

There are quiet voices in the foyer, though Freddie can’t hear what they’re saying over the pounding of his own heart, and finally John returns, Brian ( _ Brian _ ) trailing along after him.

He looks thinner than before, with circles under his eyes like he hasn’t been sleeping well. Isn’t Anita sleeping with him now? Can’t she soothe his restless thoughts? He looks so  _ sad _ , like a Brian who’s been depressed for weeks, not properly taking care of himself. But it must be just from the travel—that has to be it—when Freddie saw Brian on the television not long ago, he looked fine. Healthy, even.

“Freddie,” Brian breathes, his eyes lighting up. He takes a step towards the couch.

“Oi,” Roger says sharply, lurching to his feet. He’s still holding onto Freddie’s hand. “Hold up there, mate.”

Brian does stop, though it seems to take an effort. “Roger,” he says. “I understand you’re upset—”

“I’m a bit more than upset!” Roger says. “Why is it just  _ today _ that we all decided to go looking for Freddie, huh? If you really cared about him—”

“Roger,” Brian says, more firmly. “Let me explain myself to Freddie first. You deserve to hear it first,” he says to Freddie. “ _ You _ can wait,” he adds to Roger.

Roger hesitates. He looks down at Freddie, still holding tight to his hand.

Freddie isn’t sure he wants to hear what Brian will say. He isn’t sure he’s ready to hear the truth from his lips. That he’s not what Brian wants, that he never will be. Brian will probably explain that no, he didn’t care,  _ doesn’t  _ care and that’s why he didn’t go and search for him before. 

Freddie doesn’t want Brian to tell him that he doesn’t love him anymore, that he’s in love with someone else. He won’t be able to handle it, to handle the pain it’ll give him. Maybe Brian will say exactly what he said in Freddie’s nightmare. It’s probably what he truly thinks. Freddie won’t be able to look in his eyes ever again, he won’t be able to look at them, knowing there’s none of the love he wants in them, that there never has been. 

Freddie won’t be able to look in his own eyes after Brian tells him. He won’t be able to look at himself, knowing that he isn’t what Brian would want, what anyone would want. He can’t help but find himself as unlovable as everybody else finds him. It must be true. 

Brian will never want him. 

“Freddie?” Roger tries to catch his eye. “Is that okay with you?”

He manages a smile—for Roger. No need to make Roger worry more than he already has. “It’s fine, darling,” he says. “Go on. I’ll talk w-with Brian.”

The slight waver in his voice betrays him. Roger looks at him suspiciously, but he does, at last, let go of his hand and move across the room to join John. The two of them leave, heading in the direction of the kitchen, casting glances over their shoulders until they can’t see Freddie anymore. Until Freddie can’t see  _ them _ anymore.

He’s terrified; his heart hammers in his throat. He takes a nervous gulp of his drink.

“Freddie,” Brian says lowly. Freddie doesn’t want to look at him, doesn’t want to acknowledge his presence, but he can’t help himself—Brian is  _ right there _ . Brian is coming around to sit close to him, not exactly next to him—never next to him again—but close, close enough that Freddie can see his lashes against his cheekbones when he blinks. He laces his long hands together, bracing his elbows on his knees, and unexpectedly looks right at Freddie, catching him in his staring. “I’ve missed you so much.”

Freddie blinks and manages to tear his eyes away. He takes another drink. “I missed you too,” he says, voice tight and strained. “I missed all of you.”

“Then why did you stay away?” Brian asks. “Why didn’t you come  _ home? _ ”

“You  _ know _ why I couldn’t come home.” His hand is so tight around his glass that his knuckles ache. Of course Brian knows, of  _ course _ he does—Freddie can’t believe he’ll make him say it, that Freddie doesn’t  _ have _ a home, not anymore. Not if it isn’t with Brian.

“I wanted you to,” Brian says, and his own voice is hoarse with some great, suppressed emotion. His eyes burn with it.

“Don’t.” Freddie’s hand is shaking. All of him is shaking.

“I waited for you, god, Freddie—”

“Don’t!” Freddie tries to stand up—not that his legs will support him—but Brian catches his forearm and pulls him back down to the couch. Pulls him close, right into him, his long arms wrapping around his back, enveloping him.

“No, Freddie, I will,” Brian insists. “I will, I will, I will—I  _ love _ you, Freddie, I love you so much. I never stopped loving you. I love you more than anything—more than—more than this band, more than the Red Special. You mean  _ everything _ to me. I love you, do you hear me?”

It hurts, more than anything. Because it can’t be true. Because why would Brian want someone like him? Because there’s Anita, who is so much more worthy of it than he is. Because Paul said it, he’s such hard work and it gets tiring. Because Brian wants a family, because Brian surely wants someone so much better than him. 

Brian’s arms around Freddie are lovely, really, but they hurt him, because it’s most likely the last time he’ll get to feel them like this. It’s probably the last time he’ll get the chance to smell Brian’s scent from so close, the last time he’ll get the chance to feel his comforting warmth. 

Freddie doesn’t know why Brian is being so cruel, why he’s telling him words that can’t mean anything to him but mean the whole world to Freddie.  _ I love you _ . No he doesn’t, he can’t, it’s just not possible. Nobody can. Nobody would want to. 

Freddie’s eyes sting with tears, John and Roger will have to tolerate him when Brian leaves, when he leaves for good, to go and see the person he really loves. They’ll get annoyed after a while if he doesn’t stop crying. It’s immature, and it makes him even uglier than he already is. Brian wouldn’t want someone as ugly as Freddie either. 

And if by some chance Brian really loves him, he wouldn’t if he learned everything Freddie’s done when he was away. He’d be repulsed if he knew the number of times he let Paul lay his hands on him, the number of times he laid his hands on Paul. He still feels disgusting. Brian wouldn’t want him if he knew the amount of drugs he took; Brian never liked them. Or the amount of times he got drunk. 

Freddie doesn’t even have the courage to put his hands on Brian, he’ll get too attached. It’ll hurt even more when Brian pulls away and leaves him. 

“I wanted to swoop in and rescue you like… some knight in a fairytale.” Brian laughs, but he sounds choked up, like he’s on the verge of tears himself. “But John already did it for me. I can’t thank him enough. He got you away from that horrible man.” He squeezes Freddie in his arms, even though Freddie’s just sitting there, his own hands slack at his sides. He’s waiting for Brian to pull away.

And Brian does pull away, but only to catch his face in his palms, cradling it like it’s something precious. He wipes falling tears away with his thumbs. “You don’t believe me, do you?” he says, so softly.

Freddie doesn’t say anything. What is there to say? What can he do? Brian will leave now or later—he can’t mean what he says, and once he finds out what Freddie did, he’ll never look at him the same way again. He certainly won’t be able to  _ love _ him.

“I’m so sorry I left you, Freddie. I’m so sorry I let Paul get into your head, convince you that you weren’t worthy—that we didn’t want you.” Brian shakes his head. “It isn’t  _ true _ , Freddie—none of it. We wanted you then and we want you now. Roger and John and—and me. I love you. I should have noticed that he was getting to you, I should have kept any of this from happening, and I didn’t, and it’s my fault. But I still love you, I never stopped loving you, not for a second.” His thumbs rub Freddie’s cheekbones softly, soothingly. “Paul told me what happened.”

Freddie turns away, sharply, breaking Brian’s grip, more tears falling. He can’t bear to see Brian’s face. “Then I  _ know _ you’re lying,” he says shakily. Futilely, he wipes at his cheeks, trying to dry them.

“Freddie—”

“I’m a drug-addled  _ slut _ , Brian!” The words bubble out of him; distantly, he’s horrified, but they’re unstoppable, just as much as the tears are. “That’s all I’m good for—shooting up and getting drunk and spreading my legs—”

“Freddie!” Brian grabs his wrists, his eyes huge and shocked. “Don’t  _ say _ that about yourself, it’s not—”

“Not what, Brian?” Freddie challenges. “True?”

“It’s  _ not _ ,” Brian says, determined. “I  _ know _ you, Freddie, and I know it’s not true. You’re sweet and kind and you give too much to friends in need, even if they’ll never give it back. You always put your head in my lap on the couch and let me pet your hair. You baby your cats something awful, they’re such spoilt little things. You have the best voice I’ve ever heard, and it’s a privilege to record with you, and you never have a swelled head about it. You’re modest, and focused, and—and I just love everything about you, Freddie. I  _ love _ you, do you understand me? It doesn’t  _ matter _ what Paul says, what he convinced you to do—I love you, I’ll  _ never _ stop loving you.”

Freddie hides his face in his hands, trying to hide how he’s really crying now. He wants to believe it, so bad, but he can’t. He can’t. He’s never been good enough, why would he be now?

He feels Brian bringing him closer, and this is what he wants, so bad. In the end, he’s weak; he’s always been weak. So he wraps his arms around Brian’s torso. It’ll hurt so bad when it ends, but Freddie can’t help himself, he needs to have a bit of it, even if it’s not for long, even if it’s really only a fraction of what he truly wants—at least he gets to have Brian close. This is much more than what he really deserves. 

His fingers hold tightly onto Brian’s T-shirt, desperately trying to get closer, even if it’s not physically possible. He needs it, needs it to breathe, to live. He hopes Brian isn’t already annoyed as he puts his head in the crook of his neck, as he wets Brian’s shoulder with his tears. 

He doesn’t seem annoyed. He kisses Freddie’s forehead before running his hand up and down his back. It’ll really be unbearable when Freddie won’t have the chance anymore to have this, when it’s all over. He can’t force back the sobs that he hoped wouldn’t get out. 

“I love you, I love you, Bri,” Freddie whispers, throat tight. “P-please, don’t leave m-me.”

“I won’t, Freddie,” Brian says fervently. He kisses his forehead again, then both cheeks. “Never again, I promise. I know you don’t believe me now, but will you give me a chance? Please, Freddie.” Brian’s crying too now, Freddie can hear it in his voice. “Will you give me a chance to persuade you to come home? To let me love you again?”

Freddie closes his eyes and just breathes Brian in. He never stood a chance, not from the moment Brian walked through the front door. He nods.

Brian sags with relief. “Thank you,” he whispers. “Thank you, thank you.” He kisses Freddie just above his ear. “I love you, baby. Forever.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Progress at last!
> 
> We hope you all enjoyed and we'll see you next time! Keep being awesome, you are all the sweetest and kindest readers we could ever want.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Freddie makes a new friend.

“Hey, baby,” Freddie whispers, and grins helplessly when Delilah headbutts him in the chin, purring. They’re all clustered around him, his little babies, tails in the air, paws on his thighs, little feline voices mewing and purring and calling for him. He doesn’t have enough hands, he’s trying to pet all of them at once but it’s impossible. They stare up at him with huge eyes in small faces, so  _ happy _ to see him. “Oh, babies,” he says, and he’s near tears.

He thought—well, he thought, coming back to Garden Lodge, even for a visit, that there would be nothing of him left. His art would be gone, the furniture rearranged. Most of all, the cats would be given away—there’s no way that Brian would have kept them. He only put up with them because of Freddie, and there’s no reason for him to deal with half a dozen cats  _ or _ Freddie anymore.

Right?

But here they are—all of them—healthy and happy as can be, if desperate for Freddie’s affection after so long, and there’s Brian, standing in the doorway to the sitting room, grinning fit to burst. His familiar eyes look damp too, like seeing Freddie on their furniture, in their living room, surrounded by cats is getting to him.

Maybe he’s telling the truth. Maybe what he’s been saying, all these weeks, about… loving Freddie, still, after everything… maybe it’s the truth?

Freddie raises a hand to wipe at his face, and laughs when Miko dives for his hand, unwilling to let him go. “You  _ kept _ them,” he says, in the same helpless way he had when he first saw them. “I can’t believe you  _ kept _ them.”

“Why wouldn’t I keep them?” Brian crosses the room and sits on the other side of the sofa, carefully not crowding Freddie, and strokes Goliath on his small head. “You know I’d never send an animal back to the shelter. Besides, this… this is their home.” He’s quiet for a moment, just looking at Goliath, his eyes overbright. “I thought maybe you’d want them back, one day.”

It had broken Freddie’s heart—more than it had already been broken—to leave his babies behind too, but they wouldn’t have known what to do with a move to an entirely different country. They would have been afraid, upset. He couldn’t do that to them. But he’s still surprised to find them just where they were, looking at both him and Brian trustingly, the way they always have.

He hardly feels the break in his heart, here, like this.

“Brian,” he begins, though he doesn’t really know where he’s going, and he’s saved by the doorbell ringing.

“Ah,” Brian says, starting off the couch. Most of the cats follow suit, leaping out of the room with their tails in the air, though Delilah and Lily stay close. “I’ll get it. I’ll be right back,” he says, smiling. “We have to leave soon if we’re going to make our reservation.”

He leaves with his typical, long-legged stride, and Freddie kisses Delilah between the ears, thinking. He’d agreed to meet Brian at Garden Lodge before dinner—they’re eating out—it’s a  _ date _ , it’s unmistakably a date, and Freddie had spent half his time after he agreed thinking it was a mistake. It would hurt more, when he saw what Brian had done to their home, when he saw proof of how Brian had moved on.

But Brian  _ hasn’t _ moved on, by all appearances, and now Freddie’s full of butterflies, like he’s never been on a date with Brian before. Like this is their first time.

Suddenly, he hears a woman’s voice, and he blinks, brought back to the present with a bump. Before he can prepare himself—before he can even really figure out what’s going on—a pretty young woman sweeps into the room, smiling at him, a bounce in her step. Freddie recognizes her from Brian’s television interview.

She’s even prettier in real life. Much prettier than he will ever be—maybe this is it. Maybe Brian will change his mind, go on a date with her instead. She’s the perfect match for him. Surely Brian will realise it? If he didn’t already. 

Freddie can’t help hiding his face, as small tears form in his eyes. He takes Delilah in his arms, burying his face in her fur. This is so ridiculous, he knows it is, but it’s even more ridiculous to cry right now. But he maybe dumbly had too high hopes, thinking that he was going to be happy, thinking that Brian would immediately want him back. 

Brian probably just went to search for Freddie when Anita wasn’t there, in a weak moment. He reached out for the last person there was that would want to hang out with him. But now there’s much better in his reach, there’s Anita, in the house, and looking at her beside Freddie, Brian will realize. Will see how stupid he’s been to believe Freddie was good enough. 

“Hi!”

And her voice is perfect too. She’s so perfect—Freddie  _ can’t  _ compete. She probably loves the cats too. The cats probably love her. 

Willing himself to stop thinking, because then he’ll cry and Brian will want him even less, he turns his face to look at the woman again. She’s really pretty. He’s gay and even he knows that she’s  _ really _ pretty. 

“Hi,” he says, getting up on his feet, ruffling his clothes to get the cat hairs off of him. Inevitably, he looks at his clothes; he should have dressed better, maybe, he’s supposed to go on a date with Brian, not that it’ll happen—Anita looks like a goddess compared to him. 

He leans in and kisses her on both cheeks, she smells good too. He hasn’t smelled himself actually before getting here, he forgot to put on deodorant. He’ll do his best to not be too close to Brian, or to Anita. 

“It’s so nice to meet you!” She has a wide grin on her face,  _ perfect fucking teeth, _ she seems incredibly nice, just like Brian. “Brian told me so much about you,” she says, eyes wide.

Brian told her about him?

The thought brings a flutter to Freddie’s heart. Brian’s talked about him while he was gone. He talked about him when Freddie was away, thinking Brian was glad he was finally gone, thinking he was happier now. 

“In a good way?” he asks, jokingly, or at least he tries to seem joking. Because even if she’s all smiles and bright eyes, telling him about it, maybe she’s just pretending and Brian’s been saying awful things. Not that Brian isn’t extremely kind, but Freddie honestly can’t find good things Brian could be saying about him. 

“Of course in a good way!” she says, laughing, reaching forward with one small hand to squeeze his wrist. “I couldn’t  _ wait _ to meet you, but I had to sneak over tonight if I ever wanted a chance. Oh, I’m so glad you’re here—I feel as if I know you already. We’re going to be  _ such _ good friends, I can tell. Do you mind if I sit?”

“Oh, go ahead,” Freddie says. He hardly knows what to think. Brian drifts back into the room, looking a little put-upon, as Anita drops onto the couch with a wide smile.

“ _ Anita, _ ” Brian says.

“Well,  _ when _ were you going to invite me to meet Freddie otherwise?” she asks. “Hello, cutie,” she adds, just to Lily, who’s craning her head up to Anita to sniff her. Anita holds out her hand and lets Lily thoroughly inspect her, finally tipping her little forehead into Anita’s fingers, before she pets her.

“Not when we’re due to leave in thirty minutes,” Brian mutters. He seems embarrassed.

“Oh, don’t be so nervous about it,” Anita says cheerfully. “You two will have a fabulous time. Freddie, your cats are  _ so _ sweet. I love visiting them whenever I come over.”

Freddie wavers, but Anita’s hit upon his weak spot, and he sits back down next to her on the couch. “Aren’t they darlings?” He pets Lily as Anita’s scratching her under the chin and feels that she’s purring. He  _ knew _ that Anita would be good with the cats, but somehow the thought doesn’t hurt so much now. “I missed them very much while I was gone,” he adds, more quietly.

“Brian missed  _ you _ ,” Anita says, looking at Freddie seriously. “I’ve never seen anyone miss someone so badly.”

Freddie glances at Brian, who’s looking at the floor, his face red. “I—I missed him too,” he whispers. He wouldn’t say these things to a near-stranger, he really wouldn’t, but Anita doesn’t  _ feel _ like a stranger, not really.

“I knew it.” Anita touches his arm again, squeezes it. Her eyes are serious but very kind. “See, Brian? I told you.”

“Anita,” Brian mumbles again.

“Oh, all right, I’ll let you talk it through over dinner.” She tosses her hair and settles back to pet Lily. “Freddie, you have to give me some advice on decorating my house. I’m in  _ awe _ of this place, it’s completely gorgeous, and Brian says you’re the one who did it all. He says he’s hopeless at this sort of thing and you’re the one I should talk to.”

“Well.” Freddie flushes a little, flattered, looking around their house. His heart flutters. He’d worked so  _ hard _ on designing this house, tearing it all out and starting again, and he’s always  _ hoped _ that Brian liked it, but—it’s always nice, hearing that he does, that he trusts Freddie to help someone else. “Yes, I suppose. If you really want me to.”

“I’ve tried my best, but this is so unique, it’s beautiful,” Anita says earnestly. “I love your style.  _ Please _ , you have to help me.”

Freddie laughs, and he’s startled. He hasn’t laughed, not for real, in weeks—months, even. “Yes, all right!”

Anita clasps her hands together, pleased. “I’m so glad I came over,” she says. “I think Brian was afraid of introducing us for some reason, but I knew we’d get along. We can be friends, don’t you think?” She looks at Freddie with her wide, clear eyes. She just seems so  _ genuine _ .

“I think so,” Freddie whispers, shyly, not able to hide his wide grin, accidentally flashing his teeth. He covers his mouth with his hand out of habit, one that came back after so many years. And then suddenly Anita has her hands on his face, she looks at him with wide eyes, which makes him lower his own; she probably noticed his teeth. She’s probably going to criticize them or something, or maybe she won’t say anything but she’ll be thinking—

“You’re so gorgeous!” she exclaims, still staring at his face like he actually  _ is _ gorgeous. “I wish I had your bone structure. You’ve got the prettiest eyes I’ve ever seen. And god your lips!” She keeps going and Freddie is probably scarlet red at this point. No one’s complimented him in  _ so _ long. 

“Anita,” Brian repeats, this time smiling, a laugh on his lips. 

“What?!” she says, looking as energetic as ever. Freddie likes it, he likes her presence. Maybe it’s because she’s been very nice with him, nicer than how she maybe should act with him, but he doesn’t dare say it, selfishly, not wanting her to stop being this way. 

“Give him a rest!” Brian laughs, Freddie catches his eyes for a few seconds and he feels as if it’s the first time he’s seen Brian again. But there’s even more love than there used to be. He hopes with all his  _ fucking _ sensitive and desperate heart that it’s the same case for Brian. 

_ I love you,  _ he wants to blurt out so bad. He wants Brian to say it back, to kiss him. Even—even if he doesn’t deserve it, even if this is far from what he should have, he wants it badly, like he’s never wanted anything else before. He needs it. 

“You have to give me your secret to have lips that look this soft,” Anita continues, completely ignoring Brian’s comment. Freddie’s eyes find hers again, and he feels his skin heat up against her hand, not used to all this praise.

“Well,” he fumbles, “if—if you really want me to.”

She just smiles at him and links their arms together. “Of course I do,” she says breezily. “We’re friends now, aren’t we?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anita continues to be a fabulous friend! We love writing her.
> 
> You are all also fabulous! We hope you had fun with this latest chapter and that we'll see you next time~


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Freddie and Brian sit down for dinner and a long-overdue talk.

“Anita seems nice,” Freddie says tentatively, settling into the passenger seat.

Brian smiles at him, buckling his seatbelt. He’s extremely handsome in a button-up shirt and nice slacks, and Freddie just wants to touch—hold his hand like they used to in the car, when he could get away with it. He clenches his fingers in his lap, fighting to control himself.

“She’s been very kind to me,” Brian says. He puts the key into the ignition and starts the car, headlights illuminating the bushes along the drive. “I’m glad she left us alone, though,” he adds, shooting Freddie a nervous grin.

Freddie looks down at his knees. “Me too,” he admits, unable to help himself. “Where are we going tonight, darling?”

“It’s a surprise,” Brian says mysteriously, and Freddie laughs.

“You can’t just tell me?”

“You’ll like it, I promise,” Brian says. “Can’t I surprise you?”

Freddie glances at him, remembering the last time Brian surprised him—their last anniversary, before Freddie left and ruined everything. Brian brought him breakfast in bed, his very favorites, and fed him, indulgently, in a way that made Freddie almost doubt Paul when he said Brian couldn’t possibly still want him, not after all these years.

“He got you off his back, didn’t he?” Paul said when Freddie described the lovely, impossible day, spent lazily in bed with Brian and the cats. “When’s the next time you’re going to be brave enough to ask him for something?” He looked at Freddie with pity and took his hand. “How much time does he really spend with you, Freddie? Think about it.”

“Of course you can surprise me,” Freddie says, through the lump in his throat. “I—I love surprises, darling, you know that.”

Brian flushes, pleased, and then holds out his free hand, the one not on the wheel. “Do you—is it too soon?” he asks.

Freddie stares at the offered hand, his heart in his throat, then carefully, holding his breath, laces their fingers together. “It’s not too soon,” he breathes.

Squeezing his hand, Brian smiles at him, his eyes lighter than they’ve been in weeks, and it’s just like it used to be. Freddie can’t believe his luck, can’t believe that Brian would forgive him enough to hold his hand like nothing’s changed.

He can’t believe Brian still wants him, still wants to tolerate him. Well maybe he doesn’t. Maybe this dinner is just a way to let Freddie down slowly. Because Brian surely mustn’t still want him not after already being there for him for so long. He must have understood how much better life can be without him when he was away. 

But right now, Brian is holding his hand, it’s lovely, it really is and Freddie can’t make go away the lump in his throat. He can’t help but feel like it’s just like all those other times they were holding hands in the car, those times when it was Freddie who asked for the contact, who felt insecure again until he could feel Brian’s fingers intertwined with his own. 

It’s hard to believe that Brian is gonna push him away when he’s being as sweet as he’s ever been, as caring. Freddie doesn’t want it to end, he doesn’t want reality crashing back on him, hitting him straight in the face, making him realise that it’s all just a dream that will never come true, that it’s only his imagination, making him believe that Brian will never leave. 

He doesn’t want to come back to days when Brian was happy without him, or at least he doesn’t want to discover that these days still keep happening, that everyday is one of these days. He just wants Brian to want him as much as Freddie wants him. 

Brian pulls into a parking lot, and Freddie sees that they’re in front of their favorite Japanese restaurant, the one they always went to on date night. Where they had their own table, where they came so often that nobody even cared anymore that they were Freddie Mercury and Brian May. His heart leaps because Brian  _ remembered. _

“Oh, Brian,” he says, his hand flying up to cover his mouth. His eyes fill with tears.

“Do you like it?” Brian asks anxiously.

Freddie nods, squeezing Brian’s hand hard. “I do,” he says. “Oh, Brian, this is wonderful.”

Brian comes around the car to help Freddie out, the way he always used to, and Freddie lets him because he’s weak. Because he wants to hold Brian’s hand for as long as possible. Because he wants to pretend, for this moment, at least, that this is them  _ before _ , and nothing has changed.

“You ready?” Brian asks. He links their fingers together without asking this time, and Freddie can feel his own blush.

He nods, following Brian to the front door.

Brian speaks quietly to the young lady manning the door, and they’re immediately escorted to a table— _ their _ table—and Brian pulls out Freddie’s chair for him. Freddie can’t believe this is happening.

“I’m so happy to see you here again,” Brian says quietly, taking Freddie’s hands across the table. His long fingers smooth over Freddie’s knuckles. “I couldn’t come here without you.”

“I never thought we’d be back,” Freddie says, looking at the table.

“There’s always hope, isn’t there? We’re here now.”

Freddie can’t help smiling. “We are here now.”

“Hey,” Brian says suddenly, and Freddie’s head jerks up, his heart pounding, to see Brian frowning down at his hands. “What’s this?” He lifts Freddie’s right hand, tilting it so they can both see the scabs on his knuckles.

“Oh.” Freddie had almost forgotten. “That’s nothing, dear, don’t worry about it.”

“It doesn’t look like nothing,” Brian says, still frowning. “What happened? It looks like you punched a wall.”

“Really, it’s nothing,” Freddie says uncomfortably, shifting in his seat, but Brian sees right through him. He’s always known him so well.

“Why, Freddie?” He strokes the scabs with his fingertips, his brows furrowed. “You shouldn’t—”

“Oh, honestly, darling, it’s not a big deal.” Freddie pulls his hands back, folding them in his lap. He doesn’t want to let Brian go, but he feels so foolish, sitting there with Brian looking at the evidence of Freddie’s rage and pain.

Freddie’s hand feels cold without Brian’s on it. Freddie already misses the feeling of Brian’s warm skin on his own. He hates being so clingy. 

“You don’t have to be nervous around me,” Brian says, he looks concerned, as if it really matters. As if it’s something worth worrying about. “I know it’s been long since we last talked, but it shouldn’t feel like anything has changed, Freddie. Nothing has changed for me.” 

Freddie’s eyes catch Brian’s for a second and it makes him dizzy. It feels so familiar, like it’s the same night as every other in this restaurant. It’s like those other times they went here, just after a calm day at home, in bed. Is it really the same?

Freddie fights the horrible lump in his throat to let a few words out, “You remember the voicemail you sent me?” 

“Yeah,” Brian says cautiously.

“I had Paul listen to it for me.” Freddie almost can’t bear to meet Brian’s eyes, but that’s all that’s getting him through—all that’s keeping him steady. “He told me you were looking for new vocalists. I couldn’t—I just—” He falters. He can feel tears threatening just thinking about it. “I got so hopeful when you called, and I just…”

“You know that’s not what my message said, right, Freddie?” Brian says, so gently.

Freddie sniffs. “John said that Paul lied.”

“I called to tell you that I love you,” Brian says. He swallows, hard, and his eyes are overbright, like he’s on the verge of tears too. “I wanted you to know that nothing had changed for me. I still love you, Freddie. I’ve always loved you. I just wanted you to come home.”

Freddie can remember the pain so clearly, he can remember how his heart felt shattered when he heard they were searching for a new singer. He can remember how he thought his heart stopped, how hard it was to breathe. And it was all a lie. 

It was all a lie, to make him believe they wouldn’t ever want him again, to hurt him. But why would Paul do that to him? He had done his best to make sure Paul didn’t think of him as a burden, to make sure he wasn’t too much, to make sure Paul wouldn’t ever get angry at him for anything. What did he do to make him lie about something like that?

He had believed the lie so bad that he did his best the days after to be as kind and the less annoying he could be, because he got scared that it would end up the same way with Paul, Phoebe and Joe. All of that to learn that Brian loves him, that he  _ loves _ him. 

Brian wouldn’t lie about something like that, wouldn’t he? Paul lied about horrible things, but it’s Brian ( _ Brian)  _ he wouldn’t tell him that if it wasn’t true. Or at least Freddie hopes he wouldn’t, because if he ever learned it wasn’t true, it would break him even more. He wouldn’t ever want to look at Brian again, he wouldn’t have the guts to look at him and see in his eyes the love he pretended to have gone. 

It would be cruel, but isn’t that what his whole life is about? All the love being overtaken by the heartbreak that comes afterwards. 

He can’t just reject it, because he wants to have Brian loving him. He knows it’ll hurt eventually, but for now, he lets himself believe it, it’s better than not being wanted at all. 

“I’m sorry, Brian,” Freddie whispers.

“It’s not your fault. It’s that fucking bastard Paul, he’s the one who lied to you.” Brian lays his hand on the table, palm up, and Freddie takes it. It’s a relief, feeling Brian’s skin against his own again. “You’re listening to me now, right?” Brian asks, his hazel eyes vulnerable. “When I say I love you?”

“I’m trying.” Freddie traces the veins in Brian’s wrist with his fingertips. “I  _ want _ to believe you.” He has to force himself to go on, to keep speaking up.  _ You don’t have to be nervous around me, _ Brian said. He just can’t  _ help _ himself, when it feels like all of this is a dream that he’ll wake from at any moment. “I just love you so much,” he says quietly. “I feel like I’m dreaming.”

“If it helps, I feel like I’m dreaming too.” Brian tries to smile, but it’s small, fumbling. He looks like he’s about to cry, and Freddie immediately feels terrible—it’s something he said, he  _ knows _ it’s something he said. “I never thought I could have this chance again, to be here with you. I thought I’d lost you forever—lost the love of my life.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part 2 of the dinner date will be up tomorrow! We hope you all enjoyed a lighter chapter and we will see you soon!


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some things are hard to talk about.

“Brian,” Freddie says, almost protesting. He feels a tear slip free and wipes at his face, humiliated.

“It’s true, Freddie,” Brian insists, squeezing his hand. “I love you. I love you  _ so much _ . There’s no one else for me, there’s  _ never _ been anyone else. You’re the only one I want in my life, until the day I die.”

“Don’t say that, Bri.” Freddie’s voice wobbles dangerously.

“We’ve spent so much time  _ not _ saying things, Freddie.” Brian’s eyes are so serious, even though he’s crying now too. He doesn’t even seem to notice. “Don’t you think that’s what went wrong? That we weren’t talking enough about things that mattered?”

Freddie doesn’t answer the first thing he thinks about. He doesn’t answer that he knows it didn’t work out because of him, because he couldn’t be enough, because he ruined everything like he does with everything. Because he’s a fuckup and he knows it. “Maybe,” he whispers instead. 

He doesn’t meet Brian’s eyes, because he’s crying and it’s embarrassing. But also because he knows he won’t be able to keep himself from crying even harder if he looks at him. He keeps his eyes fixated on their linked hands, constantly wiping away the tears falling on his face. 

Brian lifts up his head with his free hand, Freddie closes his eyes, he can’t look at Brian now, it’s too much, it’s too many emotions at the same time. Happiness at the thought of Brian being there, in front of him. But sorrow at the thought of it all not being true, being a lie. 

“Freddie, look at me,” Brian whispers, his voice is soft but he  _ sounds _ like he’s crying too. Freddie slowly opens his eyes, as much as he doesn’t want to. “I love you,” Brian repeats, again, like to prove to him it’s true, that he would never lie about that.

“I love you too,” Freddie answers, his voice cracks when his throat closes up, anxiety creeping up. 

But Brian soothes everything when he leans in, his right hand still holding Freddie’s, his left holds Freddie’s head straight. He places his lips on Freddie’s and it’s like the first kiss they ever shared. Sparks fly and Freddie craves for more and more, so he approaches Brian even more, he missed it, he missed it  _ so bad _ . 

And when Brian goes to back away to  _ breathe _ , Freddie doesn’t even allow him, he puts his free hand at the back of Brian’s head and pushes him back against his lips. He needs it, he can’t live without it anymore, he can’t ever let him go again, it’ll kill him. 

Brian can think whatever he wants, he can think he’s clingy, too demanding, unlovable, annoying, it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter, because at least Brian will be there, by his side. He can go have other people if he wants to, as long as he comes back in the end, as long as he doesn’t leave definitely, as long as he always comes back, to endure Freddie again. He doesn’t care, Freddie won’t ever be able to not have this anymore. 

He needs Brian’s touch, not anyone’s else. He needs Brian to kiss him, to tell him he loves him, to hold him. Freddie will live with the pain of the lie if he has to. He’ll do everything in his power to not lose the man he loves with all his heart. He’ll change himself completely if he has to. 

Because he loves Brian so bad, that nothing else matters, just like nothing else matters when they’re kissing at this very moment. Nothing else matters when they pull away from each other, lips tinted red, looking in each other’s eyes lovingly. 

“I love you,” Freddie says again, he can’t help himself. His hand tightens on Brian’s. His eyes silently plead for an answer, it’s hard to breathe as the silence lingers.

“I love you too,” Brian says again too, because he knows what look Freddie sent him, what it means. He knows him by heart now. 

Freddie sighs, savoring the words, as a waitress approaches, perhaps sensing her opportunity.

“Would you gentlemen like to see the menu?” she asks politely, holding out two wood-fronted menus and a smaller, slimmer list of drinks.

Brian glances at Freddie, then turns to the waitress, smiling, still holding on to Freddie. “We know what we want,” he says, and proceeds to order for both of them—Freddie’s favorite sushi, his usual drink, and Brian’s own familiar order from so many dates, so many anniversaries.

It’s so lovely, being catered to, waited on by Brian like in the old days. Lips still tingling from Brian’s kiss, Freddie blushes in happiness and pleasure, watching the waitress faithfully take their order on her little pad.

“Right away, sirs,” she says, with a little bow, and moves away with quick steps.

“That was all right?” Brian asks, turning to Freddie. “You don’t mind?”

Freddie shakes his head. “No, I don’t mind. Exactly the opposite, darling,” he says, with a little, delirious laugh. He’s dreaming, or it’s all a falsehood somehow, but he’ll enjoy it until it’s torn from him.

Brian, smiling, leans across the table, and Freddie meets his lips in another kiss. This is all he ever thought of, while he was gone—being with Brian, kissing Brian, being held by Brian like nothing had changed. Like Brian still loved him.

“Can I ask you about something?” Brian asks, giving Freddie one last, lingering peck on the lips.

“Of course, dear.”

“I… I’ve been looking at your social media, while you were away.” Brian’s eyes flicker away, and he smiles wryly. “Old habits die hard.”

“Oh, Brian, you shouldn’t look at that rubbish,” Freddie says, nerves fluttering up in his stomach. God knows what Brian’s seen online about him—horrible things, no doubt. Maybe he really  _ has _ brought Freddie here to tell him that, love him as he might, they can’t be together, they can never be together, not while Freddie’s such a fuckup.

“It  _ is _ rubbish,” Brian says sincerely, meeting Freddie’s eyes. “All of it, Freddie, just people saying rubbish. They don’t know you, they never have.”

Freddie shrugs uncomfortably. It all feels awfully accurate to him, like these strangers can see straight through him to the warped little boy inside, the one grasping at any love he can find only to watch it slip through his fingers.

“Anyway.” Brian clears his throat. “Most of it’s perfect rubbish and—and you really shouldn’t pay it any mind. But there’s one set of comments that’s been bothering me.”

“Oh?” Freddie’s voice wobbles.

“Yes.” For a moment, Brian’s quiet, just playing with Freddie’s fingers, tracing the thin line of his bones down to his nails and back up again. “This Harry fellow…”

“Brian,” Freddie says, pathetically small. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Well, I don’t want to force you,” Brian says, kindly. “But Freddie, what he says has  _ no basis _ in truth, none at all.”

Freddie almost protests, mouth already opened, really to let out the words, but he closes his mouth back up. What good will it do? Freddie prefers to just ignore the churning in his stomach, to forget about the nightmare, about the words that seemed so real that they still haunt him. Brian saying he’d be better dead. 

He dreamed of it more than once. 

He knows he should trust Brian to tell him the truth about it. He’s not a liar, he’s not a bad person, but every word posted on his page seemed,  _ felt  _ so true. But why would Brian lie to him? He can’t help but be torn between the man he loves and everything he thinks of himself, written by others. 

“I know,” Freddie answers, he  _ doesn’t  _ know. 

“Do you really?” Brian asks, not completely convinced. 

(He knows Freddie, he knows how easily he believes people, even the most horrible things that are said to him. He knows how easily they get engraved in him, not ever leaving him.)

“I mean—“ Freddie goes to talk, to justify  _ why _ it’s quite true sometimes. But Brian won’t let him believe it for a second more. 

“He’s awful and his comments are absolutely awful and you shouldn’t even consider believing them, okay?” He squeezes Freddie’s hand tighter in his, he won’t let it get to him. He can’t, it’s exactly the type of things that make Freddie leave. “None of it is true, no one wants you gone, no one wants you dead.” Just saying the words makes Brian’s throat feel all funny. It makes his sight slightly blurry. 

“All these people have never got the chance to exchange a word with you, to get to know who you really are. They’re all just jealous, they’re just people that feel so bad in their skins that they want you to feel even worse.” Brian makes his voice as steady and firm as he can, just enough to make Freddie understand. 

When Freddie looks up, he has already red eyes, he’s cried too much tonight. His fingers are probably painfully tightly wrapped around Brian’s hand, but he can’t help himself, he can’t help but try and let out all the pain he felt the past weeks. Because, maybe this isn’t a dream, maybe it’s true, maybe he really is good enough. Somewhat, the words sound bad in Freddie’s head, he’ll never get used to it. 

Brian’s leg collides, softly, with his own, just like he used to do. Even the slightest contact is comforting, he doesn’t want Brian to pull away, even when they eat, even when they walk away from the restaurant, even when they’re in the car again. He wants to stay in this position forever, hold onto Brian until he’s too weak to do it, then he’ll ask Brian to hold onto him. 

Maybe like that they can hold onto each other forever.

  
  
  


Brian escorts Freddie back into Garden Lodge, his hand at the small of his back, and the cats rush to greet them in a little furry herd, tails up, pleased as anything to see Freddie again.

“Hello, babies,” Freddie coos, leaning down to pat their little heads, stroke down to their tails. “Thank you for taking me out, darling,” he adds, looking up to Brian.

“My pleasure,” Brian says warmly. He helps Freddie up from the swarm of cats and pulls him close, right up against him, and Freddie loses his breath. “Can I kiss you again?”

Freddie grips the sleeves of Brian’s shirt, nodding, and leans up on his toes to kiss Brian himself. He feels Brian’s hands sliding around his waist, fitting close to his spine, and it’s just so good, so sweet. He’s safe in Brian’s arms—it’s instinctual, no thought required, but a feeling that sweeps through him and eases all the tension in him.

“You’re so lovely,” Brian murmurs. “I love you so much, Freddie.”

“I love you too, darling.” Freddie kisses Brian on the cheek, the throat. He’ll hold his words in his heart forever, no matter what happens after this.

“Come on,” Brian says, and links their arms together, like they’re walking down the street somewhere, and Freddie follows along, unable to stop himself smiling. “Do you want to watch some television? We can put on whatever you like.”

“Oh, I don’t care, dear, whatever is fine.” Anything is fine, as long as he’s with Brian.

Tugging him down onto the couch, Brian fishes the remote out from between the cushions—it’s a miracle he even knows where it is, he’s always losing it—and loops his free arm around Freddie’s shoulders, pulling him close. “What about this?” he asks. “It’s a nature documentary.”

“That’s fine.” Freddie doesn’t even look at the television. He’s too busy staring up at Brian, at his lovely face and beautifully unruly hair, and he hardly dares to breathe with Brian’s arm around him. It’s all too perfect. Carefully, afraid he’ll be pushed away, he rests his head on Brian’s shoulder.

Brian turns his head to kiss his hair. “I love you,” he says, so much feeling in his voice.

Freddie so, so wants to believe him. It would be so lovely, if Brian could forgive him for being  _ Freddie _ , for everything wrong with him, and just love him anyway. What a lovely dream that would be.

Freddie doesn’t want to wake up. He wants to just dream forever, here in Brian’s arms, with Brian’s kisses on his lips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We hope you enjoyed reading about Freddie and Brian's date as much as we did writing it!
> 
> You all continue to be fabulous readers and we appreciate every one of you. Stay safe out there and we'll see you next time~!


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This isn't the dream Freddie hoped for.

They’re at Garden Lodge again when Brian asks. Sitting on the couch, television playing (ignored) in the background, legs and hands tangled together. Delilah and Lily are curled up not far away, sleeping, and that’s how Freddie has restrained himself to just kisses, to just sitting here and touching Brian so innocently. He wants more—wants  _ Brian _ to want more—but he’s terrified that Brian will look at him and remember how recently he was in another man’s bed.

No, it’s a good thing his babies are here. He couldn’t bear to scar them anyway.

“Freddie,” Brian whispers, tipping Freddie’s chin up with their joined hands to kiss him again. Freddie gets lost in it, in  _ Brian _ , fighting back a moan. Some time later, Brian, regrettably, pulls away. “Wait, no, I need to say this.  _ Freddie _ .”

“What is it, darling?” He’s right  _ there _ , within reach, and Freddie could kiss him again, savor this thing he thought he’d lost forever, but Brian wants to talk. He’s focusing so hard on it, his wonderful face scrunching up.  _ Oh, _ Freddie realizes—he’s worried. What is he—?

“Would you ever…” Brian clears his throat, then tries again: “Would you ever consider moving back in here? To Garden Lodge?”

Freddie stares at him. His brain feels like it’s jammed. “Move back here?” he says. “With you?”

“Yes, with me,” Brian says, laughing a little in an attempt to hide his nervousness. “I mean, I—I hope you’d want me to stay.”

“Why would I want you to go?” Freddie asks, lost. “I love you, I-I don’t want you to go anywhere,  _ please _ , Brian, you said you wouldn’t—”

“And I’m not.” Brian brings his hands to his mouth, kisses his knuckles. “Not unless you want me to. But—if you want me to stay—then I’ll be here with you forever.”

Freddie ducks his head, trying to hide how overwhelmed he is. He pulls Brian’s hands to his chest, right against his heart. “I never want you to go,” he says quietly. “I want you to stay with me.”

Slowly, Brian bends down to meet his eyes. He’s all hunched over, the ridiculous man, just to be at Freddie’s level. “Does that mean you’ll consider moving back in?”

Despite himself, Freddie laughs, though it’s all choked up. The tears are coming on. “Do you even have to ask?” he says. He kisses Brian quickly, sweetly, and hopes against hope to never be pushed away. “I would move back in tomorrow, Bri, if I could.”

Brian smiles with what appears to be relief, then grabs Freddie’s face and kisses him, hard. “Why not?” he says when they part.

“Why not what?”

“Why not move in tomorrow?” Brian’s grinning fully now, ablaze with light. “We can get your things from Roger’s and bring them back. I mean—” He checks himself. “If you really want to.”

“Of course I want to, darling.” Freddie puts his arms around Brian’s shoulders and tucks himself close, holding his breath until Brian holds him back. He’s not foolish enough to waste a second of his time with Brian again, long or short as it may be. “I always want to be with you,” he whispers, and squeezes his eyes shut when Brian presses his lips to his neck.

  
  


Four days later, all of Freddie’s stuff finally arrives back from Munich, escorted by Joe and Phoebe. Freddie had to call up—well, get someone else to call up—the shipping company and redirect the boxes to Garden Lodge, rather than storage, and his stomach had fluttered absurdly as he demanded the change.

It feels  _ real _ , all of a sudden, rather than just a delirious dream. There are real boxes in real trucks outside, and real people carting things to and fro as Freddie directs them. Phoebe and Joe are real, standing by the staircase with clipboards and shadowed eyes, probably exhausted by the trip.

Freddie is over the moon.

“I can stay and help,” Brian tries one more time, hovering by the doorway with his keys clutched in his hand.

“Oh, really, darling.” Freddie leans up on his toes to kiss Brian on the cheek. “Roger’s waiting for you.”

Brian eyes the boxes and furniture and handcarts littering the entryway. “I can help figure out where things should go,” he says, with that same unreasonable confidence, when they both know he’ll just get in Freddie’s way.

“No, it’s all right, dear, I’ve got it.” It hurts, a little, sending Brian away, but he’s gotten underfoot so many times this morning that Freddie’s remembered those few times when he needed Brian to go, just for a bit. He’s almost certain that Brian will come back—there’s hardly any doubt left in him, not right now. Brian might change his mind later, but right now, Freddie’s sure—sure that he  _ loves _ him. “Go on,” he says, giving him a slight push. “Or Roger will be ringing me up asking where you are.”

Brian sighs, but then he smiles. “All right,” he says. “I’ll go if you give me a kiss.”

And Freddie’s happy to oblige, tipping his head up as Brian bends down, their mouths meeting briefly, sweetly.

When Brian’s gone, edging the car past the vans in the drive, Freddie turns to Phoebe and Joe, ready to continue directing. “Well then!” he says. “Where were we?”

They exchange tense glances, and then Phoebe says, “Freddie, can we talk?”

“Of course, darling!” Freddie looks at him, taking in his pallor, the dark shadows under his eyes. “What is it, dear? Are you ill?”

Phoebe hands his clipboard to Joe and beckons Freddie up the stairs. There aren’t any movers up here yet, and all the cats are locked in the master bedroom, hiding, but Phoebe takes Freddie to the bathroom off one of the spare bedrooms, Joe following with the clipboards clutched to his chest, closing both doors behind them.

“Really, what’s going on?” Freddie asks, worried.

Freddie can’t imagine many things that could be happening, besides one of them being sick. He’d be devastated, probably have no choice but to let Phoebe or Joe go, until they’re well again. But wouldn’t he have noticed if one of them was sick? He hasn’t seen them a lot these last few days though, with them off to Munich again—maybe he should have been more present. 

Or maybe they think all of this is a bad idea. Maybe they think it’s not worth it, that it’s not going to last long anyway, that it’s unnecessary effort, moving all his things and settling down, just to be let down by Brian soon, to be told that it’s not working. Sometimes, when Freddie thinks too much, when he worries too much, he believes that maybe it’s true. That it’s wasted effort, because all of this will be gone soon. 

But when he thinks about it in another way, no matter how much it hurts to think it’s going to end, he tells himself it’s better to enjoy it for now. It’s better to hold onto it as much as he can, enjoy it while it lasts. 

“T-there’s something we think you should know, Fred,” Joe says, he looks as nervous as Phoebe does, and it makes Freddie even more nervous. 

“What is it?” Freddie asks again, he can feel the tightness in his chest as the silence lingers, as Phoebe and Joe look at each other, without saying a word. Then Joe nods at Phoebe, like giving him permission or something. 

“We found out something, accidentally, and we think it’s fair you know it,” Phoebe starts, way too slowly for Freddie’s liking. 

“Come on, what’s going on?” Freddie asks again, desperately, this is gonna make him have a nervous breakdown. 

“We heard Paul on the phone recently—“ Phoebe goes to say, but he’s quickly interrupted by a much more impatient Joe. 

“For fuck’s sake, Peter!” he exclaims. “Paul’s got AIDS,” Joe says quickly, looking almost relieved as the words get out of him. 

Freddie’s vision blurs in front of him as the words repeat in his mind, as they sink, as he realizes. He needs to grip onto the sink so his weak knees won’t fail him. So he doesn’t fall onto the cold floor. 

“W-what?” Freddie asks, voice weak, choked up with the shock, with the fear. Because he realizes, when he thinks about Brian, that this is going to end way sooner than he thought. That Brian won’t ever want him again, won’t ever want to touch him. 

“We heard him talking to a doctor on the phone, h-he’s got it,” Phoebe says, still looking quite shocked himself. He goes to reach for Freddie’s arm, to reassure him, but Freddie doesn’t let him, backing up, his heart beating so loudly in his chest.

“I-I need to go,” Freddie whispers eventually, opening the door as quickly as possible with his shaky hands. 

“Wait, Freddie!” Joe lunges forward to grab his arm, but lets Freddie shake him off roughly. “You may not have it,” he says in a low voice, his eyes darting out to the hallway to make sure they aren’t overheard. “We should get you into a clinic, get a test done—”

“Fine,” Freddie interrupts. His voice sounds strange, not like his own. “Fine, schedule it.” He can’t bear to look at them, to see the pity in their eyes, and this time when he walks off they don’t try to stop him. He slips into the master bedroom and slams the door behind him, locking it.

He walks to the foot of the bed—the bed he’s shared with Brian—and puts his back to one of the posts, sliding to the ground. For a moment, he stares blankly at his hands—his filthy, traitorous hands.

He wipes furiously at the tear that falls down his cheek. It’s done, it’s too late, Brian will never want him near again. He’ll leave now, he’s sure of it, he’ll be leaving as soon as he learns, as soon as he realises how filthy and disgusting Freddie really is. He’ll get as far as he can, Freddie will never have the chance to hug or kiss him one last time. 

He was right, it would have never lasted. 

And he’ll have to explain it to Brian, he’ll have to tell him why it should end. He won’t be able to leave this time without saying why, because if he does leave like that again, Brian will go and find him, and then it’ll hurt more in the end. 

He’ll have to watch the love and the fondness in Brian’s eyes turn into disgust. He’ll have to watch him get his hands away from him, walk away from him. He deserves it after all, he deserves it for how awful he’s always been. He brought this all onto himself and he shouldn’t have ever thought it could work with him and Brian. He shouldn’t have got his hopes up. Brian won’t want to love him when he learns what Freddie’s gotten for letting Paul fuck him. 

Brian deserves better, he deserves better than a disgusting whore like him. 

There’s a knock at the door. “Freddie?” Phoebe calls tentatively.

Freddie scrubs at his face. “What?”

“Can I come in for a second?”

No one should come in. No one should even be near Freddie, not anymore. Still, he heaves himself to his feet and unlocks the door, because Phoebe and Joe knew what horrible news they were bringing back and they told him anyway.

Phoebe steps inside. He’s holding his phone in one hand. “We got you in with a discreet clinic in forty-five minutes,” he says quietly. “But we have to leave now, Freddie. Joe’s pulling the car around.”

For a moment, panic seizes Freddie. He doesn’t want to know, not really—not for sure. It’s a death sentence no matter how he looks at it, for himself and for  _ him and Brian _ , not that  _ not knowing _ would save either.

“It’s okay, Freddie,” Phoebe says, trying for reassuring. He puts on a not-very-convincing smile. “I’m sure you’re fine. You and Paul always used protection, right?”

Freddie can’t look at him. “Not always,” he whispers, and he hates himself, he  _ hates _ himself. He’s betrayed Brian so utterly.

Gently, Phoebe takes his arm, and Freddie doesn’t have the strength to shake him off. “Come on,” he says. “I’ve left the housekeeper in charge. She’ll unpack everything.”

He’d honestly forgotten about the movers, about all the things from Munich—fucking  _ Munich _ —and that’s all Freddie can think about in the car, leaning his head against the window. He’ll have to pack it all back up, put everything back in boxes, take it with him somewhere else when Brian kicks him out. And what about the cats? If he’s going to die, is it better for them to stay with Brian? He’ll miss them—he’ll miss all of them—he’ll miss  _ Brian _ . His heart is breaking.

He was right, earlier. It  _ is _ real, all of this. It was never a dream. Brian’s too good, much too good for Freddie, and he’ll see that soon.  _ Too soon _ .

The clinic, as promised, is very discreet, though by that point Freddie is hardly registering anything. They bring him in through the back, straight into an exam room, Phoebe and Joe hovering anxiously by his shoulder. The doctor’s talking, talking, talking. Freddie stares blankly, and Joe answers for him.

At some point, the nurse comes back in, and the pity on her face is unbearable to look at. Freddie rolls up his sleeve so he doesn’t have to see, watches as she puts a thick rubber band on his upper arm and pulls it tight. She stretches out his arm, gloved fingers strange on his skin, and inserts the needle into the vein.

The blood rises, thick and red. Freddie remembers, with visceral suddenness, Brian asking for a kiss before he left, not an hour and a half ago—his soft lips, his smile.

Brian will never kiss him again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Paul isn't back, but he's still screwing things up. It's his special talent.
> 
> Don't forget that "eventual happy ending" is in the tags, and we'll see you all next time!


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Freddie grieves for his relationship with Brian—before Brian even gets home.

On the way home, Joe says, tentatively: “Freddie—”

“I don’t want to talk,” Freddie interrupts. He rubs at the inside of his elbow, where the needle went in, his skin crawling. He can hardly stand to touch  _ himself _ . God, he’s so dirty, he’s disgusting, he wishes he could tear himself free from his body and just… be  _ free _ of it.

Except he deserves all this, doesn’t he?  _ He _ made the choices that led him here, that will take Brian away from him. It’s no one’s fault but his own. He  _ should _ have to live with the consequences.

His hands are shaking. He pins them between his knees, squeezing until it hurts.

Phoebe and Joe exchange glances, but, thankfully, don’t say anything else. The ride back to the house is very quiet.

When they get back, the trucks and vans have gone; apparently everything has been unloaded, placed somewhere it will only stay for a few more days, at most. Freddie hopes nothing’s been unboxed. The pain will be unbearable as it is, moving everything straight back out, but having to  _ pack it straight back up _ too—

No.

At least, from a quick scan of the drive, it’s obvious Brian isn’t back yet. He can put off the inevitable for a little while longer, at least.

They pile out of the car, Phoebe and Joe trailing after him uncertainly, but they stop when Freddie snaps, “ _ Fuck off, _ would you?” He glares at them with all the anger in him, making sure they’re rooted to the spot, before storming up the stairs and locking himself in the master bedroom.

He freezes at the door, his hand still on the knob. Brian’s nerdy books are piled on his bedside table, some of his sweaters neatly folded on the little sofa beneath the window. He didn’t change the sheets after Freddie left—it’s the same set, the elaborate, shiny one he had made to resemble peacock’s feathers. The room’s such a perfect mixture of  _ them _ , their lives tangling around each other, and Freddie’s ruined it. He’s lost this forever, the lovely life in front of him—infected it with his presence, turned it all black and filthy.

At once, he lets go of the doorknob, wiping his hands frantically on his jeans. Oh  _ god _ . What has he touched? What has he contaminated?

Rushing into the bathroom, Freddie fumbles with the knobs at his sink, turning on a gush of water, hardly caring if it’s an appropriate temperature. He scrubs at his hands, digging the soap into his skin with his nails. It’s so hard to see what he’s doing; everything’s so blurry. He realizes that he’s crying, hot tears sliding down his cheeks.

This isn’t enough. He can’t be  _ clean _ like this. Haphazardly turning the water off, he peels off his shirt, his jeans, his underclothes, and dives for the shower. Maybe—maybe if he just scrubs hard enough, he won’t feel so  _ dirty _ . So much like Brian will know what he has the moment he looks at him.

But no matter how much he rubs the soap onto his body when the steaming hot water falls onto him, he still feels dirty. He scrubs his skin red and raw, but it doesn’t change anything. And it doesn’t stop new tears from falling, more pain from coming. 

There’s nothing he can do, nothing he could ever say that could fix it. He’s going to lose everything, and this time for good. He’ll lose everything that could ever make him happy. He’ll lose  _ Brian _ , who he only got back barely days ago. He’ll lose the band, his best friends with it. Phoebe and Joe probably won’t want to stay around either. Nobody will want to stay around. 

He can barely bring himself to think about his parents, his father, who already looks at him in ways he doesn’t want to be looked at. He won’t look at him at all anymore. And there’s Kashmira.  _ Kash.  _ He doesn’t want to imagine what she’ll say, how she’ll look at him. She’s always been there for him, she won’t want to be when she learns about  _ this _ . Not ever again. 

He wants the drops on his face to only be water from the shower, but they’re not, and they won’t stop coming. Not when he thinks about his fans, when he thinks about the comments he’ll get, what that guy Harry will say. He’ll surely have something to say. 

His chest feels tight when he thinks of everything he’ll lose, because of the stupid choices he made, because of how filthy he has acted. He knew it would come back and haunt him in one way or another, ruining his entire life. And now this is one of the last times he’s spending in this house he dreamed of all his life, the last times he’ll get to see the man he dreamed of all his life. Brian will  _ hate  _ him.

Sniffing, Freddie washes the last of the soap off, doing his best to pretend that his tears are just more water. Then he just leans his forehead against the slick tiles for a long, long moment, the hot spray pounding against his back.

He can’t stay in here forever.

Reluctantly, he turns off the shower, stepping out, his hand automatically reaching for his towel. It’s hanging there right next to Brian’s, and he has to fight off a new surge of tears, burying his face in the soft cream folds.

Maybe Anita’s towel will hang there soon. Brian deserves someone so kind after all Freddie’s put him through. It will hurt to see them together—hurt like dying never will—but Freddie’s met her now, and he knows he can trust her with Brian. She’ll take care of him.

When he’s dry, he carefully puts his old clothes in a separate place than the laundry basket, resisting the urge to separate out  _ all _ of his clothes from Brian’s right now. Brian probably won’t want to wear these particular outfits again anyway. Going to find a fresh outfit causes more pain, because they share drawers, and when he opens the dresser he can see Brian’s tops folded neatly next to his, and it’s so hard not to sit down and just  _ cry _ .

Freddie grabs clothes without his usual care, slamming the drawers shut, and dresses hurriedly, wiping at his face. He can hear voices downstairs, faintly.

Maybe Brian’s back. His heart clenches, painfully, and his stomach turns over. Still, there’s no point avoiding the inevitable, and after tugging his sleeve to make sure the needle mark is covered up, Freddie ventures out into the upstairs hallway.

It  _ is _ Brian; Freddie would recognize his voice anywhere. He’s talking to Phoebe, or maybe Joe, his tone cheerful and happy, and Freddie lingers at the top of the stairs for longer than he should, just listening, even though he can’t understand what Brian’s saying. This is the last time he’ll hear that voice from Brian—it’s impossible not to savor it, just a bit. Lock it away inside his heart for the times ahead, when he won’t have Brian anymore.

But finally, he can’t put it off forever, and he goes down, weaving through the boxes in the entryway to find Brian in the kitchen, holding a one-sided conversation with Joe, who’s focusing very hard on organizing his pots and pans. Brian spots Freddie out of the corner of his eye and turns in his seat, his smile bright and so  _ loving _ .

“Freddie!” he says, like he wasn’t truly happy until just now.

“How was your lunch with Roger, dear?” Freddie asks quickly, grabbing onto the island for support. His hands are shaking, his mind white with terror.

Joe abandons his arranging, ducking out of the room, muttering something about a saucepan. Brian doesn’t seem to notice, getting to his feet—always a production, he’s so tall and lanky.

“Oh, fine,” he says, but he’s still smiling, his eyes crinkling up. “I think he’s possibly forgiven me. He didn’t throw anything at me, anyway.”

“That’s good.”

“Yes, we talked a lot about old times.” Brian walks over, leaning next to Freddie on the counter, and touches his hand. It’s all Freddie can do not to knock his hand away. “And ideas for a new album, if you’re up for it?”

Freddie can’t say anything. He ducks his head, looking at Brian’s fingers over his.

“Well, we can talk about it,” Brian says soothingly. He squeezes Freddie’s hand. “Weren’t you going to unpack while I was gone? I didn’t expect to find most things still in boxes!”

“I—I had a headache,” Freddie lies. He can’t help looking up at Brian, drinking in his lovely face, his sweet eyes. He’ll never have this again.

Brian’s face clouds, his smile fading. “I’m sorry,” he says quietly. “Do you need to go lie down?”

Like the coward he is, Freddie says, “Yes. I’m sorry, darling.”

“That’s all right, sweetheart.” Brian leans down, his face coming close, and it’s only when Freddie feels his breath on his lips that his numb brain processes that Brian means to kiss him.

He jerks back, stumbling away, and Brian stops at once, though he’s completely lost all traces of his smile now.

“Freddie? What’s the matter?”

“You—you shouldn’t kiss me,” Freddie says, his voice shaking. He grabs hold of the sink to keep himself upright; he can hardly feel his legs.

“Why?” Brian asks, confused. He looks slightly hurt, and Freddie lowers his eyes when he sees it. He doesn’t dare say anything. His chest feels so tight it’s hard to breathe, he can’t let a word out, this can’t end now. He won’t be able to get through it. “Freddie, what’s going on?” he asks again, a bit softer when he sees how nervous Freddie looks. 

Freddie immediately puts his own hand on his mouth tightly as he feels tears coming. It hurts too much, he can’t do it, it’s too painful, more than he can handle in a lifetime. He knows he deserves it, but he doesn’t know if he can endure it. 

“Is this going too quickly? Is that what it is?” Brian says, desperate for an answer, he doesn’t like seeing Freddie like that. “If it’s that then it’s okay, you don’t have to move in now, we can go as slow as you’re comfortable with,” he continues, so softly. 

It’s worse because he knows Brian won’t be as gentle and loving in a few minutes. He’ll probably be angry, disgusted, repulsed. He probably won’t be able to bear looking at Freddie anymore, knowing how dirty he truly is. He should just get it over with; the longer it lasts, the more painful it is, just like ripping a plaster away from already injured skin. 

“Paul’s got AIDS, and we weren’t always protected when we had sex, and I just got tested—” he cuts himself off. No, it hurts even more than he thought, he can feel his skin crawling, his heart breaking. He can’t look up, he can’t, it’ll be unbearable, it’ll hurt so bad. “I’m s-sorry, I’m so sorry,” he says, even knowing that it doesn’t change a thing, that it’s all ruined already. 

He lets himself cry, he never cries much in front of Brian, in front of anyone, not anymore, but there’s nothing to lose. He’s losing Brian exactly at this moment, he’s slipping through his fingers like nothing else ever has. 

“Freddie.” Brian steps closer, though Freddie covers his face with his hands so he can’t see—he doesn’t  _ want _ to see what Brian looks like, how his kind eyes will have turned cold. “ _ Freddie _ ,” Brian says, and he grabs Freddie by his arms, shaking him slightly. “Freddie, look at me.”

Unwillingly, Freddie peers at Brian through his fingers, through his tears. Brian’s face is white, his eyes wide and shocked, his breath shallow.

“Did you get the result yet?” Brian asks. When Freddie doesn’t respond, he shakes him again, a little more roughly this time. “ _ Freddie! _ Did you get the results of your test yet?”

“N-no,” Freddie stutters.

Brian lets out a hard breath, his shoulders slumping. “Then—then you might not have it,” he says, pulling Freddie close, right up against his hammering heart. “You don’t know you have it yet.”

“But—Brian—”

“And if you  _ do _ ,” Brian goes on, relentlessly, “then it doesn’t  _ matter _ , Freddie. I’m not going anywhere, okay? I told you—forever, Freddie, and I  _ meant _ it.”

“But—Brian—” Freddie says again. He can’t help clutching at Brian’s shirt, even though he knows he shouldn’t, burying his face in his shoulder. “I  _ betrayed _ you, I—I  _ cheated _ on you with Paul—”

“Paul’s a manipulative fucking asshole,” Brian says savagely. “He played on your insecurities to get what he wanted, and I’ll  _ never _ forgive him.”

“I still could have said no,” Freddie whispers.

“We weren’t together, Freddie. It wasn’t cheating.”

Freddie sobs, wracked with pain all over again. His heart is breaking. “It  _ felt _ like it, and I did it  _ anyway _ .”

“Freddie.” Brian takes his face in his hands, tilting his chin up, and then tips their foreheads together. His hazel eyes burn, but not with anger. “You’re the love of my life,” he says, quietly, fiercely. “I’m not letting you go, do you understand me? Not to Paul, not to your insecurities, not to—not to HIV or AIDS, if you have it. I  _ love you _ . I’ll love you until I stop breathing. I’m never going to stop, okay? Not for  _ anything _ .”

Squeezing his eyes shut, Freddie grasps at Brian’s wrists, holding tightly. “You’re too good for me,” he says, wrecked. “You should leave me, f-find someone better.”

“There  _ is _ no one better,” Brian says, and he sounds so  _ sure _ . “I’m not going  _ anywhere _ , baby. No matter what.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just keep in mind the tags, loves! At least one of us is a serious sucker for happy endings.
> 
> Keep your chins up in these tough times and we'll see you with the next chapter!


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Freddie gets the results of his test.

For a week and a half, Freddie tries his best to act as though nothing is wrong. He’s convinced Brian not to tell Roger or John—he can’t bear the idea of them knowing, not yet. The longer they can keep this from the people he cares about, the better. That’s more time he can spend with them as someone normal. Someone who’s  _ not _ dying because of his own mistakes.

He knows Brian is holding out for a negative test result, but Freddie knows that’s too good to be true. That’s not how his life works.

Every night, he curls up in their bed, heart hammering, expecting to be told to go to one of the guest rooms. Brian  _ must _ realize that Freddie’s not worth it soon. But every night, without fail, Brian joins him and pulls him into his arms, tucking him nice and safe under his chin, against his chest. Freddie doesn’t deserve it, he  _ knows _ he doesn’t deserve it, but it’s exactly what he wants, when he allows himself to want it. With Brian’s arms around him and Brian’s mouth in his hair, he can almost believe that everything is going to be all right.

Then, one morning, Phoebe runs into the room where Freddie and Brian are sitting, feet tangled together as Brian reads one of his astrophysics books. Freddie’s just watching Brian, drinking in the lovely lines of his face, his narrow shoulders, his long hands cradling the book’s cover.

“Freddie,” Phoebe says, tense, and when Freddie tears his eyes away from Brian long enough to look over, he registers that Phoebe has his phone in his hands and he’s pale, maybe from shock. “It’s the clinic. They have your results.”

Freddie’s stomach turns over and he immediately wants to throw up. He’d thought he was prepared—he was ready to hear what he already knows—but it turns out that he  _ isn’t _ . He isn’t ready, not in any sense of the word.

He wants more  _ time _ . More time to make music. More time with his friends, his family. With Roger, with John. With  _ Brian _ .

Brian jerks fully upright, his book slamming shut. “Have they said what the results are?” he asks, tight and strangled, like he hasn’t taken a full breath.

Phoebe shakes his head. “They want to talk to you, Freddie.”

“Me?” Freddie asks, as if it’s not obvious. He’s too nervous. He doesn’t want to hear it, he knows what the results are, but he doesn’t want it to become real, he doesn’t want Brian to know it, to leave him. He told Freddie he wouldn’t leave him even if the results were positive, but Freddie doesn’t believe it. 

It’d be easier for Brian to leave, find someone who’s not an idiot like Freddie is, find someone who’s not sick, not dying. Find someone who truly deserves him. It’s too much effort for Brian for what Freddie’s really worth. Of course Brian wouldn’t stay. 

He doesn’t want Brian to leave. He doesn’t want to be alone. Just the thought frightens him and it’s not like he’s never been alone. He’s happy with Brian, even if the guilt of holding him back is sometimes suffocating. He doesn’t want to lose everything again, he doesn’t want to have to watch Brian start his life again, happier. 

He still holds out his hand to Phoebe when he nods, his heart beating loudly. He feels sick, he’s not sure he’ll be able to talk. And Brian’s so near, it’ll be so  _ quick _ from the moment he himself hears the truth to the moment he pulls away. His life will be ruined, pointless without Brian in it, without anyone in it. 

He pulls his arm away before Phoebe can give him his phone. He can’t do it, he can’t, he  _ can’t. _ “I-I can’t.” He has to hide his face in his hands to not break down completely, to hide the fact he can feel tears silently forming in his eyes. “I’m scared,” he barely brings himself to admit. 

He can feel Brian move even closer, wrapping his nice arms around him. “Hey, it’s gonna be okay, baby,” Brian whispers. But it’s not going to be okay, Freddie knows it. There’s no way it’ll be okay. And Freddie’s scared he won’t be able to handle it. “Do you want me to do it for you?” Brian asks gently, pressing a kiss to Freddie’s neck. 

Freddie remembers the last time he allowed someone to do that for him, how it ended. Brian wouldn’t do that. It’s  _ Brian _ . So Freddie nods, even if Brian will leave even quicker, even if Freddie will have fewer seconds to spend in Brian’s arms. It’ll hurt, he doesn’t know how to brace himself for it. He doesn’t know if there’s any way he could accept the fact Brian won’t want him without feeling like crying. It hurts already, and Freddie can’t stop himself from gripping onto Brian’s arm, for the last time. 

“C-can you kiss me?” Freddie asks quietly, pulling his other hand away from his face. As a last kiss, as the last moment of their lips joined, as the last time he’ll be able to smell Brian. Brian nods, kissing Freddie right away. Freddie tries to make it last, but Brian eventually pulls away, asking Phoebe for the phone. And Freddie’s never been so terrified. He holds tighter onto Brian’s arm. 

“Hello?” Brian says to the phone. There’s a pause. “No, this is Brian May. I’m listed as Freddie’s contact on his forms—or I should be.” After a longer pause, during which Freddie thinks his heart might beat right out of his chest and fall to the floor, flopping like a dying fish, Brian says, “Yes. What are the results?” He listens, and all of him relaxes, all at once, releasing tension like a waterfall. “Oh, thank god,” he says, turning to Freddie with tears in his eyes. “Thank god. You’re okay, baby,” he says to Freddie, kissing him fiercely on his cheek, his mouth. “You tested negative. You don’t have it. Thank  _ god _ .”

And as Brian says a few last words to the person on the phone, then hanging up, Freddie can’t believe it. He can’t, he  _ can’t.  _ How? He couldn’t have not got it. There’s no way. There  _ must _ be a mistake. He can’t be okay surely? He’s relieved, so relieved, but he’s scared to get his hopes up, later finding out this is all a mistake, that he really is sick, that Brian is leaving. 

Does that mean Brian’s not leaving? That he’s staying? Freddie braced himself for so long for Brian leaving him at one point or another. He thought so many times about how he would react when he learned that Freddie really is sick. But now he’s not, and Freddie’s not sure how to react himself. He’s not sure if any of this is real. Brian still could leave anyway, it doesn’t change anything really, but at least he’s not leaving now. Freddie’s got time, a bit more, maybe just enough to convince Brian to not leave him. Maybe just enough for Freddie to memorise as much of Brian as he can. Maybe just enough for Freddie to be happy for a little while. 

Freddie’s still trying to absorb all of this when Brian turns to him again, sweeping him up into a crushing hug. He’s crying, Freddie realizes, his damp face pressed close to Freddie’s throat, his shoulders shaking with sobs. And Freddie can’t dwell on his own worries when Brian’s  _ right here _ , maybe needing him, and he puts his arms around him in turn, stroking a hand through Brian’s wild curls. Discreetly, Phoebe retreats.

“Freddie,” Brian says, pulling back slightly to look him in the eyes. “You’re all right.”

“I am,” Freddie agrees, because it seems to be the thing to say. “I guess—I guess you were right, darling, not to give up hope.”

“I would never give up on you, Freddie,” Brian says. He kisses Freddie again, deep and lingering, and Freddie melts into it, into  _ him _ . “Want to stay in tonight?” he asks. “Have a private celebration? I can send Joe out for ingredients, I haven’t cooked for you in—in so long.”

If he’s still suspended in this state of unreality, Freddie doesn’t want to leave anytime soon. So he just smiles, wipes the tears from Brian’s anxious eyes, and says, “Of course, darling. I would love to.”

  
  
  


Brian sends Freddie upstairs to get dressed while he and Joe get the kitchen ready, before Joe heads out with Phoebe for the night. “Pick something nice,” he’d said, kissing Freddie, and then his eyes crinkled up as he smiled. “Not that you would wear anything else!”

“Toeing the line, there, May,” Freddie had replied, but he’d smiled too. As if he could ever be upset with Brian. As if he could ever be mad at him—certainly not right now.

He dresses with the attention and care he mostly disregarded during the past awful week and a half, laying out countless options and trying on and discarding half of them before he settles on a set he likes—white, slim-fit trousers and a pale blue button-up shirt. It’s all more formal than what he usually prefers, but Brian had said  _ nice _ , and Freddie wants to look good for him. He wants Brian’s eyes on him and him alone, as impossible a dream as that might be.

Then he sweeps back down the stairs, pausing only to pet Goliath, who’s perched on a chair in the hallway. He longs to see Brian again, touch him, tuck himself back against his side the way they’ve been all day since the call, just cuddled up on the couch. The house already smells amazing, like warmth and spices, and Freddie ducks into the kitchen to find Brian stood over the stove.

He’s got one of Joe’s cooking aprons tied around his waist, and he stares down at whatever’s cooking in the pan with absolute concentration. Clearly, he’s tried to push his hair behind his ears so he can see properly, but the curls are escaping, as always, pointing this way and that. He has some red sauce on the back of his hand that he’s forgotten to wipe off.

Freddie stares at him and is struck to the core, all over again, with how much he  _ loves _ him.

Brian spots him then and turns, a sweet smile on his lips, his whole face lighting up like the sun rising. “Hey,” he says, pausing for a moment to take Freddie in. “You look gorgeous.”

Blushing, Freddie waves him off, his chest warm. “Oh, darling, you flatter me.” He steps up beside Brian, hoping to be held, and joy bursts through him when Brian puts an arm around his shoulders. “What are you making?”

“Spaghetti,” Brian says, laughing self-consciously. “It’s the only thing I know how to cook.”

“Don’t say that! You’re a lovely cook, dear.”

“There’s a reason why you hired Joe, remember?” Brian squeezes him close and leans over to kiss the top of his head. “It’s all right, I think I can handle this.”

They talk idly while Brian works on the sauce and the noodles, though Freddie couldn’t honestly say what topics they discuss. He’s too caught up in Brian’s arm around him, Brian touching the small of his back, Brian’s lips on his cheeks and forehead. For the first time in days, Freddie can let himself be touched without immediately feeling like he’s tarnishing Brian or infecting him. It’s surreal how  _ well _ he feels—better than ever, really, with Brian next to him like this.

“Can you get the plates?” Brian asks, kissing Freddie’s temple. “I think this is done.”

Freddie obediently goes and finds them two plates—though it takes him a couple of tries, he has no clue where things are stored—and Brian plates up the spaghetti, only then remembering to grab the bread out of the oven. Still, eventually they’re seated with well-made vegetarian spaghetti and slightly singed bread, ankles hooked together beneath the table. Freddie is deliriously happy, all the more so compared to his despair this morning.

“You’re so beautiful,” Brian says softly. He reaches for Freddie’s hand and he happily gives it to him. “I love you so much, Freddie.”

“I love you too, Brian.” Freddie raises Brian’s hand to his cheek, pressing a kiss to his wrist. “More—more than I can say.”

Brian hesitates, then takes a deep breath. “I’ll never leave you,” he says, looking at Freddie intensely. “No matter what.”

“I know that, dear,” Freddie says, though he doesn’t, really. Still, best not to dwell on that, not tonight, at least, when he’s feeling so good.

Brian doesn’t look convinced, but he does go on: “I would have asked you anyway, you know. No matter what the results of your test were.”

Freddie frowns. “Asked me what?”

“I love you so much.” Gently, Brian pulls their joined hands to his mouth, kissing Freddie’s knuckles. “You’re my whole  _ life _ , Freddie, and I just—I just want to spend the rest of my life with you. I want to come home to you every day and go to bed with you every night. I want to adopt as many cats as you want and love them like our children. I want to share all of your sorrows and joys. I just—I want you  _ here _ , with  _ me _ . Forever. Is that selfish?”

Tears welling in his eyes, Freddie shakes his head. “No,” he whispers. “No, it’s not selfish, Bri, I—I want that too.”

Brian kisses his fingers again, then slides off his chair. For a moment, Freddie thinks he’s tripped him, with their ankles tangled the way they are, but Brian’s just getting down on one knee, his face tilted up to Freddie, love and need in his eyes. He looks like Freddie does in the mirror when he thinks of Brian, and he’s  _ down on one knee _ , for  _ Freddie _ , and Freddie’s breath catches in his chest.

“I don’t really care if it’s selfish, honestly,” Brian says quietly. “After these past few months, I learned that I can’t do without you. I  _ need _ you, Freddie. I love you, just— _ so much _ . Will you stay with me forever? Will—will you marry me?”

“Bri—” Freddie can’t get himself to finish what he was going to say. What  _ was _ he even going to say? He puts both his hands on his mouth, frozen. This isn’t real, is it? This  _ can’t  _ be real. Why would Bri want that? He must be dreaming, this isn’t possible. This wasn’t in any of the versions Freddie pictured when he thought about what their future might be like.  _ None _ of the versions involved Brian being there forever. 

Before he can stop himself, before he can even anticipate them, there are tears falling on his face. It’s partly because he’s happy, because he can’t believe it, and partly because this simply can’t be true, and this is a cruel dream that can’t come true. He’ll wake up and realize that Brian would never want to marry him. To  _ marry _ him. 

But Brian’s looking at him like no one has  _ ever _ looked at him, with a love Freddie dreamed of all his life. And he looks so hopeful, but the crease between his brows shows that he’s nervous too. It’s too good to be true, too good for what he deserves. Why doesn’t Brian leave? Why would he want to spend his whole life with  _ him? _

It’ll hurt, when the dream ends, when he finally wakes up, when Brian is gone. But he can’t stop himself from nodding almost aggressively, instead of saying it out loud, because he can’t while he’s crying so hard. He can handle the disappointment later if he gets that first. He can just enjoy it while it lasts, make the most of it. If he says no, it’ll end sooner, and Freddie would be stupid to do that. He can just hope, for now, that all of this is reality, that this isn’t a dream. 

The ring is simple, produced from Brian’s pocket, but Freddie still loves it. It’s a gold band, with nothing on it, but the fact Brian is sliding it on his ring finger makes it a whole lot prettier, it makes it incredibly special. He doesn’t want to remove it from his finger ever again. Even if Brian leaves, he’ll never remove it, just as proof, as proof that this wasn’t only a part of his imagination. 

Brian stares at the ring on Freddie’s finger for a moment, awed and overwhelmed, his eyes bright with tears. Quickly, like he can’t help himself, Brian wraps his arms around him and Freddie’s never felt safer before. He’s never felt happier before. His boyfri— _ fiancé _ is holding him, and it’s warm, and comforting. And he doesn’t want it to stop. He won’t let Brian leave, he simply won’t let him. 

“I love you  _ so _ much, baby,” Brian whispers in his ear and Freddie can’t help but keep crying, because this is so surreal, because he’s gonna marry the love of his life. And because Brian keeps calling  _ him _ the love of his life.

“I love you too,” Freddie answers, choked up, but so happy. He can’t express how much he truly loves him into words. Hopefully this is enough, hopefully Brian knows it. 

He’s never letting go. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay! We hope you are all happier after the events of this chapter. Things are looking up!
> 
> You're all lovely, as always, and your kudos and comments give us life. Keep being fabulous and stay safe in this turbulent holiday season.


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Freddie and Brian tell the boys about their engagement.

Brian takes him to bed.

He’s so much gentler than Paul, his hands like wings on Freddie’s heated skin, his mouth warm on Freddie’s throat, his shoulder, his hip. He touches him like Freddie’s something precious, and like this, enveloped by Brian ( _ Brian _ ), Freddie can almost believe it. When Brian looks at him like that,  _ holds _ him like that, he can believe anything, even that he’s the bright, luminous being that Brian says he sees.

Freddie sighs, his hands tangling in the sheets, as Brian moves above him, and he’s never felt so complete. Brian’s hand secure on his waist, their mouths moving together. Brian’s ring on his finger.

Brian props himself up on his elbows, his curls sticking to his forehead with sweat. He’s so beautiful—eyes blown wide in the dark, lips kissed pink. Freddie realizes that his own mouth is open, that he’s panting, and lovely Brian doesn’t need to see that. He doesn’t need reminding of how low he’s stooping. Flushing, ashamed, he frees one of his hands from the covers and flattens his palm over his mouth.

“Freddie,” Brian whispers. He catches Freddie’s hand, pulling it away. Lacing their fingers together, he presses their joined hands to the pillow beside Freddie’s head. “Love.” He kisses him again, deeply, while Freddie’s mind whirls in confusion, and when he continues their lips brush as he speaks. “Don’t hide from me, baby, please.”

“But—they’re so ugly, Brian, darling, you don’t have to see—”

“No,” Brian says firmly, “no, no, no.” He kisses Freddie on his chin, his cheek, his lips. “You’re beautiful, baby—all of you. I love your teeth, I love your smile.” Again, he kisses him, like he can’t help himself, like Freddie is irresistible. “I love making you gasp,” he murmurs, and does just that, smiling as Freddie trembles beneath him. “Let me see you,” he says. “Please?”

Overwhelmed, Freddie squeezes his hand, hard enough that it must hurt, tears springing to his eyes. “Darling,” he says, voice wavering dangerously, “Bri—I love you so much, I  _ love _ you—”

“I love you too,” Brian says, and Freddie shudders, drinking in the sweet words. He tangles his fingers in Brian’s hair, just holding on.

Afterwards, Freddie crawls up against his side, tentative, trying to make himself as small as possible. Maybe if Brian doesn’t notice him, he won’t be pushed away.

Instead, Brian gathers him close, kissing Freddie’s forehead and tangling their legs together. It’s so sweet, so perfect, that Freddie loses his breath all over again, and he hides his face in Brian’s throat, inhaling his scent.

“We’ll have to tell people,” Brian says thoughtfully. His long fingers comb through Freddie’s hair, nails scraping his scalp soothingly.

“Tell them what?” Freddie asks, sleepy, eyes drooping shut.

“That we’re getting married.” There’s a definite note of pride in Brian’s voice, and he lifts Freddie’s hand to spin the ring on his finger, like he’s proving to himself that it’s still there.

Freddie’s too tired to give this much thought right now. Too warm. Too well-loved. “Rog and Deaky first,” he says through a yawn. “They’re our boys.”

Chuckling, Brian kisses the top of his head. “Good point.” He gives Freddie’s hand a squeeze and then the bed dips as he sits up.

Freddie’s eyes fly open.  _ No _ . Brian’s pulling the covers back, he’s getting up, he’s  _ leaving _ . “No!” He lunges forward, grasping at Brian’s wrist. “No, wait, don’t leave me, please,” he says, all-too-aware of the pathetic whine in his voice. Still, he can’t make himself let go. He’s cold, shivering.

“I’m—” Brian looks at Freddie’s face in the dark and sits back down, cupping his jaw in his hands. “I’m not leaving, Freddie,” he says gently. “I was going to get you a glass of water, so you didn’t have to leave the bed if you got thirsty. Just from the bathroom.”

“I don’t need a glass of water.” Freddie squeezes his eyes tightly shut but the tears escape anyway. “I just need  _ you _ ,” he says, brokenly.

Brian kisses him. Rubs the tears from his cheeks. “Okay,” he says soothingly. “Okay. Lay down, sweetheart, I’ve got you.” He pulls Freddie close again, nice and safe against his heart, and pulls the covers over them both. “I won’t leave, Freddie, I promise. Not ever.”

  
  


Two days later, when the ring on Freddie’s finger stops feeling so much like an insubstantial dream, Freddie manages to persuade Roger and John to come over at the same time.  _ For a band meeting _ , Freddie told them. 

He’s not sure why he feels so nervous, maybe because he’s scared they won’t be as happy as he thinks, maybe they think Freddie’s not any good for Brian too. Maybe they think this isn’t a good idea, that it won’t last. He’s pretty sure that he’s fearing that because it’s exactly what he, himself, thinks. 

Brian doesn’t look nervous, he looks happy, excited. Each time Freddie thinks about telling his parents, about telling Brian’s family, his heart speeds up, the tightness in his chest increasing. He  _ can’t  _ think about that just before Rog and Deaky arrive. It’ll just stress him out even more. 

“Do you think they’ll be happy for us?” he asks Brian quietly as they’re sitting on the couch, waiting. His stomach churns again at the thought of them not being happy. He doesn’t know what he’s going to do if it ends up they don’t think he’s good enough. 

“Of course they’ll be happy, baby, they’re our best friends,” Brian replies, kissing Freddie’s temple. Brian already can’t wait to get married. He can’t wait to be able to present Freddie not as his boyfriend, but as his husband. His  _ husband _ . It almost sounds too good to be true. He likes touching the ring on Freddie’s finger so he won’t forget it’s real—to always remember it. 

“I really don’t wanna tell my parents.” Freddie snuggles even closer to Brian’s chest. He actually doesn’t really get closer, but it feels like it and it’s enough for him. “I don’t want to disappoint them,” Freddie whispers. The words are hard to get out. He usually prefers to bottle it up, but somehow, this time it left his mouth before he could even think of hiding the thought away from Brian. 

“They love you, Freddie, I’m sure they’ll be happy for you.” Brian’s not actually that confident it’s going to go well. He knows there’s no way anything could go wrong with his own family, but when it comes to Freddie’s, it’s always been more complicated. His parents have always been wary of him. It’s not actually that bad, but Brian gets why Freddie is nervous. “But let’s not think about that yet, let’s just think about the fact our best friends are coming, and they’re gonna be almost happier than we are that we’re getting married, okay?” Brian exclaims, he won’t let Freddie’s head get the best of him. He doesn’t like seeing Freddie stressed, anxious, or even self deprecating. 

“Okay,” Freddie answers, letting out a long breath, as if to get rid of all the tightness in his chest. He trusts Brian, why would he lie about any of that? He wouldn’t, it’s Brian.  _ Brian.  _

The doorbell rings, and Freddie hears Phoebe answer the door, greeting Roger and John pleasantly. It sounds like they’ve driven together, and when they trail into the sitting room, they’re both wearing expressions that suggest they think something awful is about to happen.

Freddie immediately springs to his feet. He can’t bear to see those anxious faces, not anymore. “Oh, darlings, don’t look so sad!” he says, rushing up to throw his arms around John. “There’s nothing to fuss about.” Well, he  _ hopes _ there’s nothing to fuss about—hopes against hope.

“You look tired, Freddie,” Roger remarks. “You sure you’re okay?”

“Moving takes so much energy, dear, you know that,” Freddie says, flapping his hand dismissively. He doesn’t mention the sleepless nights spent thinking he was dying and Brian would leave him. “I had to figure out  _ just _ where to put everything, and it does take time to—”

“What is  _ this? _ ” Roger interrupts. He grabs Freddie’s hand from the air, holding it still to inspect it, staring at the gold band on his finger. “What the  _ fuck, _ Fred? This looks like a wedding ring!”

Without meaning to, Freddie glances at Brian, who’s gotten up from the couch. Roger follows the line of his gaze.

“Oh my  _ god! _ ” he says loudly, his eyes widening. “You asked him to  _ marry _ you!”

Freddie shrinks back, though he can’t get free because Roger still has hold of his hand. His heart pounds in his ears.

“I did,” Brian says steadily. “I should have done it a long time ago.” He smiles at Freddie, so sweetly, like the band might not be falling apart around them. “I want to be with Freddie forever.”

“About fucking time,” John says suddenly. He extracts Freddie’s hand from Roger’s grip and pulls him into a tight hug, and Freddie breathes out hard across his shoulder. “Love and cherish each other,” he says, “and you’ll be happy.”

“Giving us advice, Deaky?” Brian says.

“Advice from the only one of us who’s stayed married all this time? You should take it.” John pushes Freddie to arm’s length, studying his face. “I’m happy for you,” he says sincerely.

Tensely, they all turn to Roger, who’s standing like a statue planted in the middle of the room, his face frozen. His wide eyes flick between Freddie and Brian, and finally, with what seems like substantial effort, he makes his lips move. “Cherish?” he says. “You—you had  _ better _ fucking cherish him, May, or I swear to  _ fucking _ Christ I will break your neck.”

“Roger,” Freddie says, uselessly, his heart clenching up in his chest: “ _ I _ was the one who left, darling, don’t blame Brian, it wasn’t—”

“I don’t  _ care _ , Freddie!” Roger says. He points at Freddie’s hand. “That ring is a  _ promise _ . And you had better promise me  _ right now _ —”

“I understand,” Brian says. He steps closer to Roger, holding his eyes, and reaches out to take Freddie’s hand, linking their fingers together. “I’ve already promised Freddie that I’m never leaving him alone again, so I can promise you to love him like he deserves and never,  _ ever _ stop.”

Like he deserves? Freddie doesn’t  _ deserve _ any of this—it’s all a gift, a dream. Confused, he looks to Roger, who now has tears in his eyes.

“I’m trusting you,” Roger says, and closes the last foot of distance between them to bundle both Brian and Freddie in his arms. “Oh, you two,” he says raggedly. “You’ll be the death of me.”

Brian kisses Freddie on the cheek as both of them are still close to Roger. 

“Wow, okay there’s limits, don’t kiss each other an inch away from my face!” Roger exclaims, taking a step back as everyone laughs. 

Freddie still can’t actually believe the chance he’s got, the chance he has to be with Brian, to get to wear a ring he’s given him, that he’s supposed to wear all of his life. Soon he’ll have another ring, one that he won’t remove ever again. If Brian doesn’t change his mind before, of course. 

Freddie doesn’t notice immediately when Brian walks him back to the couch, because apparently they’ve decided to sit down. He doesn’t want to let go of Brian’s hand, and Freddie’s relieved when Brian doesn’t try to separate them. 

“I love you,” Freddie whispers in his ear when Roger is having a long monologue, talking about venues they should use, though how he knows any of this is beyond Freddie. 

There are still so many more people to tell, but this is still one burden gone out of many. At least, Brian doesn’t seem to be prepared to leave soon. 

“I love you too,” Brian answers, while Roger continues to talk, and wraps his arm around Freddie tighter, until there’s no air between their bodies. Until they could be one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We hope you enjoyed reading this sweet chapter as much as we enjoyed writing it! As always, we adore and appreciate every one of you for your support. See you next time~


	22. Chapter 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brian and Freddie's families come over for dinner.

Freddie hovers nervously, watching Joe place the final touches on the dining table. He’s arranged all of the heated dishes along the center of the table, precisely placed in among the flowers and candles, and it looks gorgeous, as always.

“Should we move the vegetarian casserole further to the right, dear?” Freddie asks fretfully, his hands twisting together.

Obligingly, Joe shifts the silver dish. “Like that?”

“Oh, I don’t know.” Freddie wrings his hands. “Maybe it should all go on the side table?”

Long, warm arms wrap around him, pull him close, and Brian presses a kiss to the top of his head. “It looks fantastic, Joe,” he says, rubbing Freddie’s shoulder soothingly. “Everyone’s going to love it.”

Joe’s relief shows clearly on his face. “I can set the wine out on the side table, Freddie, how about that?”

“Yes, all right, fine.” Freddie waves a hand, and when Joe ducks out of the room, he turns into Brian, hiding his face in his shoulder. “Are you _sure_ they’ll like it?” he whispers.

Brian hugs him, and despite his anxiety Freddie can’t help calming slightly. “Everything looks amazing, love,” he says. “It’s beautiful, and I’m sure Joe’s food is delicious.”

Freddie looks at his hand, braced on Brian’s shoulder. The gold ring stands out against Brian’s deep blue sweater and his own skin. Roger spotted it in thirty seconds flat—their families will be no different.

Everything will fall apart so quickly. A few minutes, a few minutes and they’ll all realise, they’ll probably wonder what went through Brian’s mind, why he did something so stupid. His parents won’t be happy, they’ll tell him how foolish he’s being, that this can’t possibly be his life, the one he’s chosen. 

At least there’s Kashmira. She’ll be happy for him, or at least she’ll pretend to be, just long enough so he doesn’t realize. But she wouldn’t lie about that—would she? 

He just hopes it won’t scare off Brian. It never has before, his parent’s incomprehension at his lifestyle choices have never made him flinch, but it could be different this time. Maybe Brian’s own parents won’t like it, maybe they’ll convince him it’s a bad idea, that he could do much better. 

He needs to stop thinking about it or else he’ll get too worked up and Brian will never get him out of the bedroom when their families get here. 

The doorbell rings, so it turns out he doesn’t have much time to flee. Brian must see the terror on his face, because he kisses him tenderly.

“It’s going to be fine,” he says, finding Freddie’s hand and squeezing it, rubbing the ring with his fingers. “I’ll get it. I love you, Freddie.”

“I love you too,” Freddie says through numb lips. He watches Brian leave the room, heading for the front door. Quickly, he flaps his hands and rubs his face, trying to take deep breaths. Whatever happens, he can’t embarrass Brian on purpose, though it’ll probably happen anyway, without him even trying.

He can hear Brian talking, even calling out, but he’s not registering what he’s saying. Before he can talk himself out of it, Freddie walks into the entryway, where Brian’s parents are standing politely by a vase of freesias and Kash is just leading Freddie’s mother through the door.

“There you are,” Brian says happily, holding out a hand, and Freddie’s helpless to do anything but step forward and take it. He needs Brian’s touch. Everyone watches them, Kash beaming, but Bomi, coming inside last, looks at them coldly, closed-off. “We’re so happy that you’re all here.”

“You’re looking much better, sweetheart,” Brian’s mother says, casting a glance at Freddie that tells him at once that she blames him for every ounce of Brian’s misery while he was gone.

“Oh, stop, Mum,” Brian says. “That’s all in the past. Do you all want a drink?”

“I wouldn’t mind some wine,” Kash offers, still smiling, and so they move as a group into the dining room where, as promised, Joe has set out a selection of wines on the side table. Brian, sweet Brian, pours everyone a drink, bridging the distance between his own parents and Freddie’s, who are standing together close to the wall, looking around the room almost warily. They’ve only been here once or twice, years ago—Freddie usually goes to their house for dinner, tries not to rub everything he is in their faces.

Kash alone stands close to him, perfectly at ease. “It’s so good to see you again,” she says quietly, under Brian’s dad asking him about the car, and takes Freddie’s hand. He feels her start and look down, brows furrowing, and he flushes as she tilts their hands so she can see the ring.

“Please don’t,” Freddie whispers. She looks up at him with big dark eyes and he says, “Not yet. _Please,_ Kash.”

There’s sympathy on her face, but she hides it quickly, tucking her small hand around his fingers until the ring is hidden. She only lets go when Brian invites them all to sit, and Freddie hides his hands under the tablecloth, Brian squeezing his thigh gently, reassuringly.

Brian’s parents, Kash, and Jer speak to each other with polite restraint, though Bomi does not contribute, focusing on his plate. Freddie is miserable. This is going to be a disaster, he knew it, he saw it coming from a mile off, and he barely touches his food, he’s so nervous. Brian does most of the talking and it’s probably horribly noticeable.

When Joe emerges, discreetly, to clear the dinner plates in preparation for dessert, Brian sets down his wine glass and takes Freddie’s hand under the table. “Freddie and I invited you all here tonight for a reason,” he says, smiling at Freddie, who just wants to throw up. “We have something to tell you.”

Kash, sitting next to Freddie, sits forward, her eyes bright, and knocks their ankles together. Brian’s mum and dad seem to have an inkling of what’s coming, but, horribly, Freddie’s parents just look politely confused.

“I asked Freddie to marry me,” Brian continues, lifting their joined hands onto the table. Freddie’s ring gleams in the candlelight. “And he said yes.”

Immediately, Kash clasps her hands together, sitting up high in her seat. “Congratulations!” she exclaims, joy clear in her voice. “I’m so happy for you two! I’ve been waiting for this moment for _years_ , you have _no_ idea—I always thought you’d be the perfect brother-in-law.” She smiles at Brian brightly. “Oh, Freddie, I’m so happy.”

Her outburst has covered any awkward silence that may have ensued from Brian’s announcement.

“This is incredible, Brian,” Brian’s mother says, her smile looking genuine. It surprises Freddie, makes it already a bit easier to breathe. Brian looks happy too, well he already did before any reactions. Sometimes Freddie wonders how he can be so calm all the time, so careless of what anyone thinks. 

His dad is smiling too, a bit less widely, but still smiling, it’s still genuine. He forces himself to concentrate on that, to ignore the fact his parents aren’t talking, are barely looking at him. If he doesn’t think about it for a moment, everything’s fine. 

“We’re very happy for you, _Farrokh,_ ” Mama says after a moment, and somehow, even if the words should have made him happier than ever, they break his heart. Because they’re not true. Because her smile isn’t sincere, because Papa’s mouth doesn’t move for a second. 

Freddie smiles slightly, he can’t bring himself to look in their eyes, to face the disappointment, he’s surprised that they held back what they clearly wanted to say. Anyway, there are a few tears blurring his vision and if he looks up they’ll fall, and he can’t do that to Brian, he can’t embarrass him like that. 

Somehow, Kashmira manages to start a conversation with Brian, making everyone else talk too—not Papa, he never talks much, never does much more than look at Freddie like he’s still a child, a wild and unruly child. 

At least Brian doesn’t pull away his hand from Freddie’s thigh, he doesn’t look like he’s ready to just run away, and his parents seem okay with it after all. It should be enough to please Freddie, shouldn’t it? It doesn’t, it hurts and he just wants, for a few seconds, just to know what it feels like—he just wants to be _normal_. 

“Freddie, when’s the wedding?” Kash asks when everybody else is busy talking. He lifts his head, grabs the hand she offers him, knowing that this isn’t what he hoped for, that he hoped for so much more acceptance. He didn’t truly expect much, but it doesn’t make it easier to accept. He hoped it wouldn’t be too noticeable, but Kashmira knows him by heart. And she knows well that he talks when everything’s okay. 

“I’ve no idea,” he says, a crooked smile forming on his face. He didn’t actually think much about the wedding. He worried so much about what people’s reactions would be, about Brian not even staying long enough to have the wedding. He didn’t even have time to think about it. 

“You should consider things like that!” she says, laughing. “Don’t worry, I can help you figure it out. The venue’s the most important thing, and you deserve someplace beautiful.”

_Deserve_ —that word again. Freddie doesn’t deserve any of this, really he doesn’t. He’s not worthy of Brian’s love and he certainly doesn’t _deserve_ to have him forever.

His smile freezes, turns awkward. Kash looks at him strangely, but Freddie gets up before she can say anything. “I’m just going to check on the dessert,” he says, and quickly retreats into the hallway, leaning back against the wall to catch his breath. He finds himself squeezing the ring on his finger, just to prove to himself that it’s there, that some part of Brian is with him. Always.

Can he trust that? Can he believe that Brian will remain blind to all of his faults for as long as Freddie wants him to?

The hardwood floors creak as someone approaches, and Freddie straightens, blinking quickly to force back tears. It takes everything in him not to flinch when he sees that it’s his father, standing not three feet away.

“Farrokh,” his father says, and it’s a shock, because he hasn’t said anything all night. His voice echoes in Freddie’s ears. “What are you doing?”

Freddie swallows, hard. “I’m sorry,” he croaks, “I don’t know what you mean, Papa.”

Bomi stares at him like he’s something dirty. “Haven’t you done enough to get attention? You have the whole world talking about you, do you really need to—to _marry_ a _man_? Haven’t you gone far enough? If you insist on behaving like this, keep it to yourself, Farrokh.”

“Papa, it’s not—I’m not _pretending._ ” To his horror, Freddie feels tears on his cheeks. “I love him, this isn’t—”

“That isn’t love, Farrokh,” his father says coldly, precisely. “I’m not sure you know what love is. You certainly don’t know how to respect your family.”

Freddie has to grit his teeth so he can try and stop the tears, so he can think clearly again. It hurts to breathe, it hurts to think. He’d expected it, his papa’s cold stares and emotionless eyes. He didn’t expect he’d speak up, that he’d let out the hurtful words that have always been there, hidden. He thought he had a good control over his emotions, but his father knows exactly what hurts. 

He just _wants_ for his parents to understand. He wants them to be happy for him, to think he deserves it, even if he doesn’t. He’s never been good enough for their expectations, for what they wished for in their son. Instead they got this faggy fucking failure. Someone who can’t keep anyone to himself, someone who can’t do anything but be a good fuck in bed. 

He’s disappointed his family, they’ll tell the uncles, the aunts, the cousins, the grandparents. They’ll be livid, he’ll be the embarrassment of the family, then laughingstock, the one who couldn’t have a normal life with normal feelings. 

“That _isn’t true_ .” Freddie’s head jerks around; horrified, he watches Brian stalk closer, eyes sparking with anger, passing Bomi to put a firm arm around Freddie’s shoulders. He must have followed them out of the room. How much did he hear? “Freddie loves more deeply and selflessly than _anyone_ I have ever met. He’ll sacrifice anything for someone he loves, far beyond what he should, because he’s generous and sweet to a fault. We’re all _blessed_ to know him, and I have to pinch myself every morning that I’m the one lucky enough to be beside him.”

“Brian,” Freddie whispers, strangled.

“ _No,_ Freddie, listen,” Brian insists. “ _Both_ of you listen. You deserve the _world_ , Freddie, and I’m sick to fucking death of people telling you that you’re somehow wrong and broken, because you’re too kind and trusting and you _believe_ them. It’s bullshit. It’s _all_ bullshit, and I’ll tell you that for the rest of our lives.” He glares at Bomi and Freddie has never seen him so angry. “I know you’re going to be my father-in-law, Mr. Bulsara, but I love your son and I’ll tell him the truth about himself, even if you won’t.”

Thin-lipped, Freddie’s father just nods. “He’s your problem now,” he says, and looks at Freddie one more time, piercingly. “Farrokh, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

“His name is _Freddie,_ ” Brian says sharply, but Bomi doesn’t respond, turning on his heel and returning to the dining room.

It’s like Freddie’s whole body freezes. He can’t believe it, can’t believe Brian said that to his father without hesitation, without tripping on a word; even he can’t look his father in his eyes. He’s never been strong enough for that, he’s just tried so hard for so long to be perfect like his parents wanted that now, when he still isn’t, he can’t help but falter each time he sees them, because he knows just how disappointed they are. 

He wipes at his eyes to try and stop tears from falling, but he eventually gives up, letting Brian envelop him in his arms, wetting his shoulder. He still tries so hard to believe Brian when he talks like that about him, but he just can’t. Still, somehow, only hearing the words from Brian’s mouth makes it a bit better. 

“I’m sorry you had to deal with that,” Brian whispers in his ear, he rubs Freddie’s back with his palm, still holding him tight, like he’s never letting go. It makes his father’s words a bit less loud in his head, even some of the harder ones to forget. 

_He’s your problem now._

He is. 

There are still people waiting for them in the dining room. He tries to bring himself to go, to let go of Brian, to remove his grip on him, but he can’t so he just stays immobile, enjoying Brian’s body near his. He has to stop thinking so he doesn’t start crying again, it’s a bit better than before. 

“I love you and you’re perfect and please, I know it’s hard but _please,_ stop thinking you are anything else than enough. You’re the love of my life and I’m gonna marry you, because you’re my soulmate and I couldn’t ever ask for a better person to be a part of my life. You are everything I want.” 

“I love you too,” Freddie answers, his voice getting higher as his emotions get so strong. He loves Brian, so much more than anything else.

It takes a few more minutes before Freddie is finally pulled together, before his tears have dried under Brian’s fingers and he can start smiling again, not _that_ brightly, but bright enough not to worry Brian too much. Freddie’s parents are still there, but there’s nothing Freddie can’t get through with Brian, and Brian isn’t leaving for now. He’s right here, right by his side. 

([Image by Living_On_My_Own](https://living-on-my-own-fm.tumblr.com/post/637364244430602240/a-frian-drawing-for-oatrevolution-and-is-fanfic))

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everyone please admire Living_On_My_Own's cute artwork! She is super talented and that picture is so sweet.
> 
> Thank you all for your kind comments and all of your support. You are fabulous and we love every one of you!


	23. Chapter 23

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There are things that need to be said.

Freddie’s brushing Tiffany, stroking her behind the ears with his other hand because he just can’t help himself—she’s so cute, curled up in his lap, purring with pleasure. They’re both sitting in a beam of sunlight, and it’s difficult to feel anything but loose and lazy with a happy cat on his knees and sun on his skin. He even has a warm cup of tea by his elbow, if he can get a hand free to drink it.

“Freddie!” Brian calls from somewhere down the hall.

“In here!” Tiffany starts a bit at his shout, and Freddie scratches her under the chin in apology.

Brian bounds into the room, bright-eyed, the sun catching in his curls. He’s gorgeous, as always, and Freddie takes a moment to appreciate him, the way his face softens when he sees Freddie and his eyes go warm.

“Hello, my loves,” Brian says, swooping in to kiss Tiffany on the head, then tipping upward slightly to press his mouth to Freddie’s.

Freddie melts into him, sighing. He lets go of Tiffany to rest his hand on Brian’s cheek, feel him—solid, real. So perfect.

“You’re so pretty in the sun,” Brian says when they pull apart. “You’re glowing.”

Flushing, Freddie scoffs. “Don’t exaggerate, darling.”

“I would never,” Brian says earnestly. He kisses Freddie again, cradling his face in his long hands. “The sun suits you. You’re so warm, and you’re so bright when you smile. I’m blinded.”

“You should look at yourself, Bri,” Freddie whispers, winding one of Brian’s curls around his finger. “You’ve caught the light in your hair.”

Smiling, Brian pulls him close, and Tiffany jumps off of Freddie’s lap with a grumble. “It’s just a reflection from you, my love.”

Freddie can’t help but smile back, still blushing quite red. He’s happy, so much more than he’s ever been, and he hopes Brian can see it, that he realises. Because, even if he gets incredibly stuck in his head sometimes, Brian’s here, always close, ready to make it better. And even if Freddie doesn’t believe everything he says, at least Brian says it, tries to make Freddie believe it. He’s happy, home, with the man he loves more than he’s ever loved anything or anyone. 

It’s sunny today too, so even the weather can’t do anything but help Freddie feel even happier. 

“Can I ask you something?” Brian rubs a thumb along his cheekbone.

“What is it, dear?”

“Now that our friends and family know about the engagement, can we tell the rest of the world?” Brian asks, his eyes bright with excitement.

Freddie blinks at him. “What do you mean? Like… a press conference?”

“We can just make a post on social media,” Brian explains, pulling his phone out of his pocket. He kisses Freddie quickly. “I just—I just want everyone to know that you’re going to be my husband. I want to call you my fiancé in public, if you’re okay with that.”

Freddie’s more than okay with that. It’s all he’s ever wanted—to be claimed by Brian in front of everyone, to be called  _ his _ . He just never really thought that Brian would want to brag that he’s getting married to  _ Freddie Mercury _ , slut extraordinaire.

“Are you sure?” he says, blankly incredulous.

Brian takes his hand, fingers lingering on the ring. “I want the whole world to know that you’re  _ mine _ ,” he says.

Freddie can’t stop himself from kissing Brian; it surprises both of them, but Freddie just needs it. Just to feel Brian, to feel that this is real, not just a dream. It is, in some ways, a dream, but not the type that only lasts a few seconds before he wakes up alone in bed, in the dark. 

He does his best not to think about anything else, to concentrate all his attention on the feeling of Brian’s lips on his, on the feeling of love that keeps growing in his heart just like a small plant well taken care of. He’s never been good at growing plants, but Brian is.

He pulls away, slightly out of breath, and blushes when Brian doesn’t stop looking at him. “I want them to know you’re mine too,” he explains quietly. He can’t have much time, but with the time he has he’ll make sure they know it, that everybody can see, for a little while, that Brian loves him. Or at least did his best to pretend to love him. 

“I don’t think it would be a good idea to announce it on your account,” Brian says, playing with Freddie’s fingers gently. He doesn’t want to have to deal with all the hate messages, he can’t possibly understand why, but he gets less horrible comments on his posts. It’s better not to upset Freddie because of that again, he doesn’t deserve it, he shouldn’t have to deal with it. 

“I-I think so too,” Freddie answers. He understands why Brian thinks that. There’s certainly a problem with him if they have to go this far not to be spammed with mean comments.  _ But true ones _ , it echoes for a while in his head. They are true and it’s only a matter of time before Brian finally understands.

Brian smiles and kisses him again, like he can’t help himself, then unlocks his phone. “I got this photo of the ring when I bought it,” he says, showing it to Freddie. The ring looks beautiful, almost as stunning as it is in real life, nestled into the red velvet inside the blue box, the one Freddie still has tucked away inside his sock drawer. “But I think we should have a picture of us, too. I want one of you with the ring on.”

Freddie squeezes his hand. “If that’s what you want, darling.”

Grinning, Brian raises his phone, and Freddie can see the two of them in the camera app. He lifts up his hand, splaying out his fingers self-consciously, and gives the camera his best close-mouthed smile. Brian presses the little button and the shutter clicks.

“Brilliant,” Brian says, and then swoops in and kisses him on the cheek. “Now  _ smile _ for me, baby, you’re so beautiful when you smile.”

Freddie doesn’t even think about it—he smiles fully, blushing, tilting his head as Brian tips their cheeks together, and it’s so perfect. It’s the two of them nestled together, Brian halfway on top of him, Brian’s breath on his jaw and his hair tickling Freddie’s ear. He almost doesn’t hear the phone’s camera clicking again over the sound of his heart, beating high in his throat.

Brian immediately drops his phone on the side table, catching Freddie’s face in his hands. “You’re so beautiful,” he says between kisses. “I love you, Freddie, I love you so much.”

“Bri,” Freddie whispers. He flings his arms around Brian’s shoulders and holds him close. He could stay like this forever, just as long as Brian is with him.

Eventually, Brian pulls him over to the couch, where they can sit next to each other—or, rather, where Brian can sit with Freddie curled up against him, tucked carefully under his arm. Brian kisses his forehead, tapping at his phone with his free hand. He attaches two photos to a Twitter post, the one of the ring in its box and, to Freddie’s mortification, the second picture of the two of them together. Brian looks gorgeous, as always, and he’s smiling like he’s truly happy, but Freddie’s buck-toothed and ugly and his eyes are nearly scrunched shut.

He doesn’t protest, though. Brian’s still smiling, and he’s still holding him close, and Freddie doesn’t want to ruin it. He nestles his cheek into Brian’s sharp shoulder and watches as he adds a caption.

_ Wedding date TBA! -Bri and Fred _

  
  
  


It takes Freddie a while to find his phone—he hasn’t been carrying it around much, honestly, too caught up in other things—and by the time he locates it in the drawer of his bedside table his notifications have blown up.

_ Oh my godddd what teh ffuckkk u have to be kidding me _

_ omg no fucking way i thought may was smarter than this _

_ WOW @BrianMay could literally have ANYONE and he chooses @FreddieMercury???? _

_ Gosh I expected anything but THAT. Please tell me Bri’s only gone insane.  _

_ Am I the only one who expected (wished too) the second picture was with Anita? _

Freddie should have expected it. It’s not because it’s on Brian’s page that it’s miraculously different. They all wish he wasn’t with Brian, they all think Brian would be better off without him. They’re not exactly wrong either, Freddie just wishes they were, he often does. 

It’s all he keeps receiving. He almost asks Brian to remove the tag, but decides against it; he wants to see, he wants to know everything they think of him. He can’t stop himself from looking, from reading each new comment. God, sometimes he wishes he wasn’t himself, that he could be someone better. 

There are a few kind comments, dispersed through all the less kind ones. Some congratulating them, some complimenting the ring, some complimenting  _ him _ . And Freddie can’t help frowning at those, when he can bring any of his attention to them. 

There’s nothing stopping the comments, nothing stopping him from reading the comments. Brian would tell him to stop looking, but he’s not there. He can’t say anything for now. 

He has to wipe his eyes a few times, his throat tightening when he forces himself not to cry. He wants, needs, to cry, but only the thought of having to hide it from Brian makes it not worth it. He’ll have to pretend not to be bothered and he’s never been good at that, especially with Brian. 

And then, worst of all, as he scrolls down—

**harry4832:**

_ damn this is the ultimate pity fuck. you’re an ugly, talentless fag who somehow got rich, that’s the only reason he’s with you _

**harry4832:**

_ i couldn’t look at that face next to me in bed, let alone in the mirror. just kill yourself already and spare the rest of us _

He has to stop looking at the screen for a moment to breathe, to register too. It’s harder to stop the tears too, but if he sniffles enough, bats his eyelids enough, and wipes carefully under his eyes from time to time, he manages to get through the pain. 

He hopes Brian hasn’t seen the comments. He’ll talk to Freddie about it and Freddie will have to tell him he’s fine when Brian get explains that it is bullshit when it  _ isn’t.  _ He tries to not think about it too much, but he can’t help it at all, it  _ hurts.  _

That’s probably truly the only reason Brian wants him. Not because he’s special or anything, just because he has money and he’s easily brought to bed. 

Just like Paul said, he’s an easy fuck.

“Freddie?”

Oh, god. Hurriedly, Freddie turns his face away from the door, twisting sideways on the bed.

He hears Brian’s footsteps, and then his weight settles on the mattress beside him. “You’re reading the comments, aren’t you,” he says quietly.

Freddie turns his phone face-down on his leg, like that will somehow cover up what he’s been doing. He doesn’t reply.

“You shouldn’t pay them any attention, Freddie.” Brian lays his hand over Freddie’s, squeezing gently. “It’s all nonsense.”

Something like a laugh lurches out of Freddie’s throat, harsh and grating. “It’s really not, Bri,” he says, staring fixedly at the wall.

“They don’t  _ know _ you, Freddie, they don’t know what they’re talking about!”

“Don’t they?” Freddie turns to him, glaring through his tears. “ _ Don’t _ they? They’ve seen enough of me through the years—enough to know that I’m vain and shallow and stupid and ugly—”

“Don’t  _ say _ those things about yourself!” Brian grabs his forearms. His face is very pale.

“Why  _ not? _ It’s all true, Brian, you  _ know _ it’s all true—”

“Just because the internet says so?” Brian’s voice is climbing in volume. “What about me, then, huh? By that logic, I’m a ditz with a great whacking nose and a perpetual bad hair day and you should all replace me with a better guitarist.”

Freddie stares at him, mouth agape. He’s in such great shock that his mind has gone white. “ _ What? _ Brian,  _ no, _ you can’t believe that, you’re wonderful—”

“And  _ so are you! _ ” Brian shouts. He shakes Freddie, just slightly, and there are tears in his eyes. “I don’t know how to get you to  _ understand _ that you’re beautiful and clever and so  _ fucking _ talented that anyone with a working brain is in awe of you.  _ I’m _ in awe of you, I  _ love _ you. Will you try to listen to me? To believe me?” All at once, he pulls Freddie into a tight embrace, pressing his face into his neck. “Do you not trust me?” he asks, voice cracking. “Do you really think some random fucking people on the internet know you better than I do?”

Freddie closes his eyes, puts a hand on Brian’s elbow. “No,” he whispers. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize. Just… can you  _ please _ try to listen? Not get into your head so much?” Brian kisses his throat and adds, quietly, “You know I know about getting into your head too much, love. But I talk to you, and I feel better. Is there a way that might help you too?”

“I’m  _ sorry, _ ” Freddie says. He’s crying in earnest now. “I-I’m no good at this, darling, I’ll just fuck it up.”

“ _ Don’t _ apologize,” Brian says again. He takes his head out of Freddie’s neck to push their foreheads together. “We can try, though, right?” he asks. “I don’t think you’ll fuck it up. I just want you to talk to me when you’re upset.” He smiles, tremulously. “That’s what husbands do, right? Support each other?”

Sweet, lovely Brian. Freddie snuffles and sucks in a hard, sharp breath, trying to steady himself. He looks deeply into Brian’s eyes and all he can see is love.

Slowly, haltingly, he begins to speak.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We still suck at writing mean comments, you guys still rock at leaving kind, supportive ones. You're all amazing and we love you madly!
> 
> Stay safe out there and we'll see you next time~


	24. Chapter 24

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's not always easy, but Brian's always there.

“I just—” Freddie has to swallow before he can go on. “I just can’t help thinking that they’re right.”

Brian’s face is soft, almost hopeful, and he rubs Freddie’s shoulder soothingly. “Right about what, baby?”

“Right about me.  _ Us _ .” He gestures between their chests and then his hand falls limply in his lap. “Y-you could do so much better than me, Brian, you…  _ deserve _ so much better than me. I’m just an ugly fuckup. Soon you’ll realize.” Hastily, Freddie wipes at his eyes, but he’s crying in earnest now and it doesn’t do much good. “A-and when you do you’ll l- _ leave _ me. It’s all right, I’m ready for it, but I don’t  _ want _ —I don’t want you to g-go.”

God, it’s so hard saying all of this out loud. Putting it out there for Brian to do what he likes with, even though it’s  _ Brian _ and Freddie trusts him more than anyone. He’s still handing him his bleeding heart and he can’t quite convince himself that Brian won’t crush it casually underfoot as he walks away. Covering his face with his hands, he crumbles forward, and Brian catches him, pulls him into his lap and hugs him close.

“Can I tell you what I think?” Brian asks carefully. He strokes a hand through Freddie’s hair, scraping his nails lightly at the nape of his neck.

Freddie snuffles and curls closer. He must be so heavy on Brian’s legs, he should get off, but Brian isn’t pushing him away, not yet. “G-go ahead.”

“I  _ don’t _ think that you’re an ‘ugly fuckup.’ I never have.” Brian’s lips find his forehead and press softly. “How long have we known each other? How long have we  _ lived _ together? I think I know you by now, Freddie, and the man I know is beautiful and incredibly talented and kind and—and every day I spend with him just makes me fall more in love with him. I don’t know what  _ I _ did to deserve to be so lucky, to get to have you in my life, but fuck, Freddie, I  _ never _ want to leave you, or you to leave me. I want you here by my side every second of every day.” He shakes his head, his nose smushed into Freddie’s hair. “That’s why I’m  _ marrying _ you, baby.”

“B-but I’m pushy. I throw tantrums like a fucking  _ child _ , Bri.” Freddie finds handfuls of Brian’s shirt to clutch. “I’m too needy,” he says tearfully, “everyone says so.”

“Who’s  _ everyone? _ Is it Paul? What he said wasn’t  _ true _ , Freddie, he was just trying to control you.”

“Nobody controls me,” Freddie snaps, a spark of defiance flaring through him. He starts to struggle, trying to worm out of Brian’s grip.

“I know that, Freddie—”

“Which just makes it  _ worse! _ I betrayed you of my own free will, Brian!” At the thought—the guilty replaying of all the times he let Paul take him to bed, take him away from  _ Brian _ —all anger bleeds out of him and he flings himself against Brian’s chest, a renewed surge of tears soaking his shirt. “You c- _ can’t _ want to st-stay with me a-after that,” he manages through his sobs. “I-I’m just a—a  _ slut _ .”

“God, Freddie, no.” Brian’s arms wrap around him again, safe and warm, unflinching in the face of what Freddie  _ is _ , what he’s done. “I know no one controls you,” he says gently, “but Paul manipulated you, sweetheart, you have to see that. He played on your insecurities to get what he wanted.”

“He didn’t have to do anything,” Freddie mumbles into Brian’s shoulder. “It’s—it’s all I’m good for.”

Brian stiffens against him. “What is?”

Freddie squeezes his eyes shut. “Getting fucked. It’s all I’m good at.”

All at once, Brian pushes him back to arms length, staring at him, and Freddie flinches. Here it is, this is the moment, he  _ knew _ it was coming—

“What about your voice?” Brian demands, his fingers digging into Freddie’s upper arms. “What about your songs? What about the  _ millions _ of people who find joy because of what you do in the studio and on stage?”

Freddie’s gaze skitters away—he can’t look at Brian like this, he’s too intense, he’s saying such kind things and it almost  _ hurts _ —but Brian shakes him until he looks back, startled.

“ _ Listen to me, _ ” Brian says fiercely. “What about the light you bring to  _ my _ life just by being you?  _ All _ of you? Are you no good at those things?”

Uncomfortably, Freddie shrugs.

“Oh, Freddie,” Brian says, and he leans their foreheads together, staring deeply into his eyes. “Do you not believe me?” He blinks, suddenly, and adds, “Do you believe me when I tell you I love you?”

“I  _ do _ believe you, Bri.” But Freddie looks into Brian’s kind eyes and has to tell the truth: “Well, I believe you do  _ now _ . You’ll change your mind eventually, when—when I get to be too much work.”

“Freddie, you’ve  _ always _ been a lot of work.” Brian smiles, a small, wobbly thing. “But that’s  _ you _ , and I love you. I love working to earn you. It’s…” There are tears in his eyes now, Freddie realizes. “It’s the most worthwhile job I’ve ever had.”

Freddie kisses him. He can’t help himself—he loves Brian so  _ fucking _ much. There’s salt on his lips, maybe from Brian’s tears, maybe from his own.

“Will you try to believe me?” Brian asks softly. “Whenever you doubt it, just say something, and I’ll  _ tell _ you. I’ll tell you how incredible you are and how much I love you, and every time I  _ mean _ it, Freddie.”

Freddie hesitates for a few seconds, then nods, still clinging onto anything he can, he’s fine there, in the warmth of Brian’s arms. He used to believe all this before everything turned upside down, before  _ he _ ruined it. He used to take in all the praise from Brian and then look at himself in the mirror and feel beautiful or listen back to his voice on the tape and be proud of how far he’d come and how well he sang. Maybe it could happen again; he wishes it could happen again. He wishes he could make it happen in the fraction of a second, that he could believe Brian and everything would be fine. That he could be happy without the everlasting worry that it’s going to end, that he’s going to do something wrong and drive Brian away. 

It’s not as easy as he wishes it was. He tries hard and so many times to believe that Brian will love him forever, that he’s a good singer, a good pianist, a good lover, a beautiful one. He sometimes believes it, when Brian says it with so much emotion and with a sparkle of love in his eyes. But it never lasts for long, as soon as he passes by a mirror or thinks back to the  _ disgusting _ mistakes he made. Or when he reads comments that articulate so well everything he thinks of himself, everything he thinks about when Brian’s isn’t holding him tight enough or for long enough. 

“I-I’ll try. I don’t know if I c-can, but I s-swear I’ll try,” he mutters in Brian’s neck, breathing in the comforting odour that Brian always wears. It’s the scent of the T-shirt from so many years before, when he still believed Brian would never want to be with him. Brian kissed him hard when he learned about it, after realising that he hadn’t seen it in so long. It’s the same smell on Brian’s pillow when he wakes up to go to the bathroom and Freddie misses him for the little time he spends away from him. 

“I just—I really want you to know just how much I love you and how perfect and talented you are. You’re actually so much more than I could ever deserve, baby, and I want you to believe it,” Brian responds. He still sounds choked up, by tears and by an overwhelming amount of love. He’s never loved anyone so much, he’s never felt so happy and lucky in a relationship before and it’s so good that he just wants the love of his life to realise it, to never doubt it again. Brian wouldn’t ever be able to live without him, to have anyone else than Freddie in his life.

“I want us to get married soon, as soon as possible,” Brian confesses, out of the blue. He does, he can’t wait to call Freddie his husband, to prove to everyone that this is never going to end. To prove to Freddie’s dad that Freddie can love and that he does so well. To prove to the haters that Freddie was always enough, that he’s everything Brian wants. To prove to Freddie that he’s never leaving him, that he’ll love him forever, no matter what. 

“Really?” Freddie asks, his voice so small it makes Brian’s heart ache. He knows nothing is solved yet, but he just wants Freddie to look at him, to listen to him talking about how incredible he is and to smile at him, without any doubt, with a trust in Brian stronger than anything. One day, hopefully. 

“Yeah, I really want to.”

“I want to marry you soon too,” Freddie says, clearly smiling, Brian knows it, even when his face is buried in his neck. 

“How about we start preparing it soon?” Brian asks, convinced Freddie will accept. He doesn’t stop holding him, happy to have him in his arms for as long as he needs, he’s as comfortable as Freddie probably is. 

“I would love that,” Freddie says softly. “It—it would feel real that way, darling, don’t you think? Like it’s really happening?”

“This  _ is _ happening,” Brian says firmly. “But you’ll have to put up with my suggestions too, you know.” He pushes his nose into Freddie’s hair, smiling so hard it hurts. “Even when I think that we should have square tables, or fold the napkins in the shape of a swan—”

“Oh, god,” Freddie says at once. “I love you, Brian, but we are having  _ round _ tables, they’ll fit the space so much better.”

“You don’t even know what the  _ space _ is yet,” Brian teases.

“It doesn’t matter! Square won’t fit,  _ fuck _ .” Freddie shudders, making sure to put on a bit of a show, and delights in Brian’s laugh.

“I know,” Brian says easily, “I’ll defer to your judgment, baby. You’re much better at this sort of thing than I am.” He brushes Freddie’s hair behind his ear with one hand. “I do want to go look at venues with you, though.”

“Of course, dear. We can ask Roger for his recommendations, he was  _ full _ of them the other day.”

“Why does he even know where to have a wedding?”

“I don’t know! I was wondering the same thing.”

“Maybe he’s been holding out on us,” Brian muses. “Maybe he has a secret side job as a wedding planner.”

They look at each other and burst out laughing simultaneously.

“ _ Roger? _ A wedding planner? A career wedding crasher, maybe—that I can believe!” Automatically, Freddie covers his mouth as he giggles, he doesn’t even think about it, but Brian immediately catches his wrist.

“Hey,” he says gently, pulling his hand away and lacing their fingers together. “Remember? Let me see you smile. You’re so beautiful.”

Freddie flushes. “It’s—they’re  _ ugly, _ ” he says, remembering his promise. “Nobody wants to see that, darling.”

“ _ I _ want to see that, Freddie,” Brian replies, so bluntly matter-of-fact that it’s impossible not to believe him. “And your teeth  _ aren’t _ ugly. They’re  _ you _ . You have such a genuine smile, sweetheart, and I love it as much as I love you.” He smiles. “Which is more than life itself, so please let me enjoy it?”

“Do you promise?” Freddie asks, the words leaping out of him before he can stop them.

Brian squeezes his hand and leans in to kiss him. “I promise.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Maybe Roger ships all of his friends and plans their weddings in his spare time, we don't know.
> 
> You all continue to be fabulous! Stay safe out there and have a great time celebrating the holiday of your choice. Just be sure to rock out to some Queen while you're at it!


	25. Chapter 25

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Freddie goes shopping. For once, he doesn't enjoy it.

Brian takes lead on the venue search. He talks to Roger and does (from what Freddie can tell) a serious amount of research online, but, as always, he wants to compile the perfect list of options before he’ll even consider calling any of them to discuss scheduling.

Freddie’s far too impatient for that. Instead, he goes shopping.

Phoebe’s there, of course—good, responsible Phoebe—but Freddie begs Roger and Kash to come along on the grounds that he needs a second and third opinion that he  _ hasn’t _ paid for. He would’ve asked Deaky to come too, but if there’s one person who knows even less about clothes than Brian, it’s John.

So they all pile in a car and drive to Harrods. By appointment, Freddie’s not a  _ savage _ .

They’re shown to a private room by a discreet woman in a suit, where a tray of food and a Men’s Department specialist wait. Roger immediately takes a sandwich (cucumber with the crusts cut off) while Kash sits down on an ottoman and does her best to pretend that she’s been here a thousand times before.

“How can I help you, sir?” the specialist asks politely. According to a little badge on his lapel, his name is Nathan.

“Suits,” Freddie says. “I need suits. You wear a suit to a wedding, right?” He turns to Roger and Kash, trying to make his eyes big and pleading. This is the entire fucking reason he brought them here.

“It is  _ your _ wedding,” Roger points out with his mouth full. “I think you get to decide.”

Freddie hadn’t considered that. He realizes, with mounting horror, that he has thought exactly none of this through. “Oh, fuck!” he exclaims. “What am I supposed to wear?!”

Roger abandons the sandwiches and comes up to his side, setting a firm hand on his shoulder. “It’s all right, mate,” he says. “We’ll figure it out. Breathe.” To Nathan, he says, “We’ll start with some suits, though, yeah? And give us some colors, not just that black shit.”

The first suit looks beautiful, a deep wine red, simple, but with a bit of colour. Freddie thinks maybe that could be right for him. When he tries it on, it isn’t right at all. He feels ridiculous in it. Kashmira smiles at him when he comes out of the dressing room, trying to be encouraging, but it’s clear it isn’t the one. 

Nathan shows another one, way more intense, still a classic shape, but bright orange. Roger laughs and wants Freddie to try it on immediately. 

“Roger! This is hideous!” Freddie still looks apologetically at Nathan, then continues. “Let me try it on,” he says before snatching the suit from Roger’s hands and walking in the changing room. 

He looks at himself in the mirror and can’t help but grimace, it looks horrible. He decides to not even show it to the others and changes back into the red suit. It’s only the second one and he’s already getting impatient. 

“Nope,” he says, walking out and giving it back to Nathan. The worker puts it back on its hanger and goes to search for other possible suits. 

The next one is everything Freddie likes, white satin, delicate and unique. He gets a boost of energy seeing it, this  _ must _ be the one. He always liked satin! 

It’s annoyingly discouraging to try on something that you think is perfect for you and it ends up looking nothing like imagined. He looks like he’s wrapped in the satin covers they have at home, and not in a good way. 

Everybody seems to think it fits him right, that it’s perfect, but it doesn’t feel like it’s the one, he doesn’t feel  _ beautiful  _ in it. Maybe it would actually be easier if he found himself beautiful originally, but still, he wants it to be perfect. He wants Brian to see him walking down the aisle and have his breath taken away, just like in his song. 

“I don’t think it’s the one, darlings,” he sighs, before drinking a whole glass of champagne. There’s  _ champagne.  _ That’s luxury, and only for finding a wedding outfit. 

“Maybe you could have a basic suit, but with a special shirt under it?” Kashmira suggests. 

So that’s what they try. Nathan finds a classic black suit, it fits great, they all do, that’s not the problem. They do have some more funky shirts. Roger picks more ugly ones, and Freddie still tries them, because what has he got to lose? (Motivation? Yeah, motivation.)

Even the one that Phoebe finds, colourful and cheerful, doesn’t work. It’s like there’s always something missing, like this isn’t truly him, completely him. 

“This isn’t  _ right! _ ” he exclaims, throwing the shirt down in frustration. “ _ Nothing’s _ right!”

“Oi, Fred, steady on,” Roger says. He’s been helping himself to the champagne in the time it’s taken Freddie to discover that Harrods is entirely useless and from the way he’s blinking he’s a bit hazy. “We’ll find something—”

“No we  _ won’t! _ ” Freddie says wildly. “I need this to be  _ perfect _ , Rog!”

“Freddie—”

“But none of this is perfect! None of it!” Freddie bends down to pick up the shirt himself so he can shake it at Roger. “I look  _ dreadful _ in  _ everything _ , Roger! I—I look  _ fat _ or—or sallow, or—”

“Freddie, that’s not true,” Phoebe interrupts, gently.

“It  _ is _ true!” Looking down at his hands, Freddie discovers that he’s holding the traitorous shirt, and throws it to the floor again to make a point. “I look  _ ugly, _ ” he says tearfully. “Nobody will want to marry me in any of these clothes.”

Phoebe comes up to him, making soft, soothing sounds, and guides him to the ottoman where Kash is still sitting. Out of the corner of his eye, Freddie sees Nathan swoop in to rescue the much-abused shirt.

It takes everything in Freddie to not fucking cry, he just wants to find something great, something that will make Brian want to marry, something that will make him look good enough. It’s his wedding, he can’t arrive and look horrible. 

“Maybe we should stop for today, Freddie,” Kash proposes, a hand on Freddie’s slumping shoulder. 

He shrugs, if they don’t find something today then why would they find something another day? 

“Brian will want to marry you even if you’re dressed in the ugliest suit on earth,” she says, comfortingly. 

It helps, slightly. But Freddie just really wants it to be perfect, for Brian to have his eyes on him uniquely, to find him the most beautiful. He doesn’t want to make Brian realise, when he looks at him, that he can find much better, much prettier. 

“Do you really think so?” he asks lowly, pressing a finger under each of his wet eyes, he can’t cry, not in the middle of a store, in front of everyone. At this very moment, he just wants to see Brian, to make sure this is real, that he truly does want to marry him, to make sure he’s still home, waiting for Freddie. He wants Brian’s hugs, just for a little while. They usually make everything better, even if only for a few minutes. 

“He loves you like crazy, Freddie, I don’t know how you don’t see it, but believe me, it’s obvious.” She rubs his head gently, her fingers going through his short and fluffy hair. 

Freddie rests his forehead on her shoulder, closing his eyes. He’ll have to talk about this with Brian later, he knows he will; he promised. Brian will tell him he loves him, he’ll reassure him that he’s beautiful—

That does it. Freddie picks himself back up, looking to Phoebe pleadingly. “I want to go home,” he says.  _ I want Brian, _ he doesn’t say, but Phoebe will know what he means.

“Let me call the car around,” Phoebe says, standing up with quiet efficiency.

“Oh, are we leaving?” Roger asks. He’s cleared the tray of sandwiches and is clearly hunting around for any scraps he may have missed, half-empty glass of champagne in hand. “You want some more champagne before you go, mate? You’ve already paid for it, it’s open—”

“Fine, give me another glass.” Freddie holds out a hand imperiously. “Only fucking worthwhile thing in this room.”

  
  
  


Finally at home—what a relief to see the familiar house again, like he’s been on tour for months rather than just shopping fruitlessly for clothes for hours and hours—Freddie weaves through the rooms, slightly tipsy from more than one  _ last glass of champagne _ , until he discovers Brian on the sofa in his study upstairs. He’s reading through a stack of printed papers and has a yellow highlighter in one hand. He looks so studious, so focused, his hair falling in his face because he can’t be bothered to push it back.

As always, he’s beautiful. Freddie hovers in the doorway for a moment, uncertain, but that’s when Brian catches sight of him, looking up and smiling.

“Freddie! There you are, love.” He drops the highlighter onto the side table and holds out his hand. “Come here, sit with me.”

Relief blooming in his chest, Freddie hurries across the room and throws himself onto the couch, curling up against Brian’s side and delighting when he puts an arm around him.

Brian kisses the top of his head. “Where did you go? I haven’t seen you in a while.”

“I went shopping with Kash and Rog and Phoebe.”

Laughing, Brian asks, “Well then, what’s the damage this time?”

“Nothing,” Freddie grouses. Pouting, he snuggles closer into Brian’s side. “I couldn’t find  _ anything _ , darling, it was all worthless. Fucking waste of an afternoon.” He grumbles a few words against Brian’s chest, his head falling down grumpily. “I hate shopping, could we just ignore that step?” he whispers tiredly. All of this made him exhausted. 

“I’m sure it wasn’t that bad, baby, didn’t you find inspiration?” Brian asks, trying to cheer him up a bit. Nothing can cheer him up, he’s just gonna go hide in the crook of Brian’s neck and never come out again. That way he doesn’t even have to think about the wedding or a stupid suit. 

“Nothing. I couldn’t find anything that didn’t make me look either stupid or ugly,” he answers. He knows what Brian will say, and it’s exactly why he said that. He just wants Brian to convince him otherwise. Yes, it’s very selfish, but he has the right to be after his shitty day. 

“You look beautiful in anything, Freddie.”

It still makes Freddie feel all warm when he listens to Brian say things like that. He thinks he’s beautiful, he loves his voice, he loves his everything, he loves him. “It’s our wedding, I don’t want to go to our wedding in a potato sack, Bri,” he grumbles back, because he’s feeling stubborn. Can he be stubborn for a while?

“You’ll find something great, I’m sure. You should stop watching those television shows about girls finding their wedding dresses, it’s all stupid pretending,” Brian explains, smiling widely at Freddie. He kisses his nose, somehow he’s flexible in the neck enough to do that. 

“Can you let me be grumpy for a moment?” 

“Yes, come on, grumpy fiancé,” Brian answers, holding him closer to his chest. 

And that, Freddie thinks, closing his eyes and sighing, is all he really wanted out of today.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Grumpy Freddie just wants cuddles.
> 
> You all continue to be sweethearts! We hope you had a fabulous holiday season and that 2021 ends up being better than 2020. Cheers!


	26. Chapter 26

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brian repeats himself, but it’s what he’s willing to do for the rest of his life.

It’s late, and Brian’s still downstairs, finishing up some work on his thesis. Freddie left him in the office surrounded by his books, a smile on his face and fondness in his heart, and went upstairs to bed on his own. Brian will be here soon enough, he knows that now. In the meantime, he has Tiffany, curled into a little purring ball by his shoulder—and his phone.

He shouldn’t be on it, really it only ever upsets him, but he can’t help himself. He just has to see what’s out there, what’s being said, and even though today’s been good—great, even; Brian held him close all afternoon, played footsie with him under the table during dinner—Freddie still has to look at Twitter.

_ i can’t wait for these two to get married, they’re so fuckin cute _

_ ^ OTP material right here _

_ OMG when will we get some engagement pics?? _

_ I needed this in my life rn you have no idea _

_ everyone aboard the good ship maycury, we set sail ASAP!!! _

Brian thumps into the room, mumbling apologies to the dresser he apparently kicked in the dark, and Freddie smiles at his phone. The water’s running in the bathroom, Brian brushing his teeth ( _ ok so I’m not the only one who thinks these 2 are PERFECT 4 each other right??? _ ), and Freddie keeps scrolling.

_ The Sun Exclusive: How long will the May/Mercury engagement last? _

Freddie freezes, staring. There, right in front of him, is a picture of himself stumbling out of some club in Munich, clearly drunk, hanging off of Paul and another man. Paul’s arm is around his shoulders, while the other man’s hangs lower, past his waist and over his ass. It’s damning, it’s scandalous, it’s—

It’s disgusting. It’s everything he can’t bear to look at. He can’t even remember that night, the circumstances, what happened with that  _ guy _ . He shouldn’t have done any of this, even if it’s only a hand on his ass, he should have never gotten to that point. He hates the wobbly smile on his face, probably the one he wore to show to Paul how  _ happy _ he is to be in Munich. The why’s and how’s don’t even matter, he shouldn’t look happy: happy to be betraying the love of his life, happy to be acting so low. 

He stops breathing for a while, because this is Twitter, where everything travels in seconds, where facts are transformed into rumours, where shares can be done in seconds. If Brian finds this, if he sees a proof of how disgusting and  _ dirty _ Freddie’s been while he was away, he won’t know what to do with himself. Brian looked fine knowing what he did with Paul, but now it’s images, he’ll have it thrown in his face, obligated to do something with it, to react. 

He can’t let Brian find out any of this. 

Abruptly, he hears the faucet in the bathroom turn off, and remembers that Brian’s right  _ here _ , he’s only feet away. Freddie immediately turns his phone off and shoves it under his pillow, rolling onto his side to hide his face in Tiffany’s fur. Hopefully Brian won’t try to talk to him.

There’s more quiet shuffling—Brian changing—and then Brian’s climbing into bed behind him, curling up against his back with a sigh. He loops one long arm over Freddie’s waist, and Freddie doesn’t understand how he can want to touch him—surely he remembers where Freddie’s been—but—

As long as he doesn’t find out, Freddie tells himself. If he doesn’t know, then there’s no reason for the arm around him to move away. Brian won’t have to spend time being repulsed, convincing himself that Freddie is worthy of his love.

Or, alternately, realizing just how much Freddie doesn’t deserve it.

“‘Night, Freddie,” Brian murmurs into the nape of his neck. His breath slows with sleep, but Freddie lays awake for a while longer, blinking back tears.

  
  


The next morning, Freddie is woken by Brian sitting beside him on the bed and brushing the hair back from his face. He opens his eyes, winces, turns away from the sun—it’s late morning.

“Freddie,” Brian says softly.

“What?” Even Tiffany has gone, probably to find a sunbeam to sleep in. Grumpy, Freddie cocoons himself in the blankets, turning away from the light.

“Did you see this?”

Reluctantly, Freddie looks back at him, and realizes that Brian is holding up his phone. The article from The Sun is displayed, and his stomach immediately plummets to his toes. He holds tight to the sheets and doesn’t say anything.

Brian correctly interprets his expression. “Freddie,” he says, “this came out last night. You said—you  _ promised _ to tell me if something like this came up, if you started worrying again.”

And so Freddie lowers his eyes. He knows he promised, that he promised he’d tell Brian everything that bothers him, when he starts to worry, when he starts to stop believing what Brian keeps telling him. But this must be different, this is something he couldn’t talk about, not if he wants to keep Brian with him. He hates to talk anyway, he hates to talk about how he feels, what he thinks, when he can’t bear to know what people think of him when he looks at them. He can’t bear for people to look at him like he’s vulnerable, unable to believe anything anyone tells him. 

He didn’t help himself with hiding it. It makes him terribly miserable, and now Brian is probably angrier than he would have been if Freddie talked to him about it. He doesn’t sound angry, but Freddie knows how well he can hide what he feels. He should have talked about it like a real man, he should have talked to Brian, even though he knew it wouldn’t end. He always fucks up anyway. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, because that’s all he can ever think of saying. There’s tears sticking to his lashes and he hates it, he hates how humiliated he feels. Because this is always this way, he always acts so weak, crying, needing for Brian to tell him how wonderful he is, needing Brian to hold him. He must be so tired of repeating all the same things over and over again, all those things Freddie wants to believe so bad. Brian said he’s a lot of work and he likes it, but surely he can’t want that much work. 

If only he could be normal, just like his father wishes he could be, just like  _ he _ wishes he could be. If only he could be stronger, if only he could be free from all the dirty things he did in the past, if only he could look as beautiful as someone like Anita is, if only he could be as deserving of love as Brian thinks he is. He wouldn’t be himself and he wishes he could be someone else, just at this very moment, or maybe all the time, he wishes he could be someone other than himself. 

“Don’t—” Brian stops himself, and puts the phone down so he can take Freddie’s hands, working them free from the sheets. “Don’t apologize,” he says, squeezing Freddie’s fingers tightly and trying to catch his eye. “They’re lying reporters, Freddie, we both know that. They’ll say anything to get a story. I just want you to  _ trust _ me with this, that’s all. Trust me when you’re scared, or sad, or nervous, and—and I’ll help you through it. That’s all I want.”

Freddie bites his lip. “I know.”

“So can you tell me how you felt, looking at this?” Brian prompts, so gently. “So we can work through it?”

Playing with Brian’s gentle fingers, Freddie talks, not very loudly, or confidently, but he talks. “I was scared, th-that you’d find out.” He looks over at Brian and knows, he knows this isn’t all he has to say. “I felt disgusting,” he whispers, swallowing his tears as much as possible. 

“Why?” Brian asks, just as softly as before, comfortingly. 

“B-because this is wrong. Because it feels all wrong. Because I shouldn’t even have done things like that a-and because it makes me all dirty.”

Brian can barely hear any of the last words, but he does, and his heart aches. “You’re not dirty, Freddie, and nothing will change that. You’ve done things while you were away and it’s okay. We weren’t together, we weren’t even talking.” He does his best to sound convincing, because all he wants is for Freddie to believe him. “I know you think that what you did was disgusting, but I promise that it isn’t.”

To prove his point, he pulls Freddie’s hands to his face and places soft kisses on every part of skin he can, slowly travelling to his wrists and even to his arms. When he looks at Freddie, he wishes he could make him believe it, he wishes he could remove all the parts of his brain that tell him all those horrible things. But he can’t, so at least he does everything else he can. 

Moving slowly so he doesn’t startle Freddie, Brian lays down at his side, wrapping him up in his arms. Freddie makes a small noise, a half-protest, and then curls close, his fingers clutching at Brian’s shirt.

“I just feel like—like I’ll never stop discovering ways that I betrayed you,” he confesses in a rush. “There will always be more, because I was—I was awful, while I was away, and I hurt you, and I—I shouldn’t have left in the first place, but—” Freddie can’t go on. He stops, gulping back tears.

Brian kisses his forehead and they’re quiet for a moment, just their breathing and Freddie’s snuffling. At last, Brian says, “Why—do you mind me asking—why did you leave? Did I do something?”

And he sounds so  _ nervous _ , like he really thinks he might have. “No!” Freddie blurts out. “No, of course not, darling—well—”

“Well?”

“Well—Paul was talking—”

“Paul?” Brian repeats. Just that word, that name, has the edge of anger that he’s carefully avoided up until now, and Freddie shrinks in his arms. Brian must notice, because he quickly smooths a hand up and down his back. “No, it’s not—it’s not your fault, Freddie. What did Paul say?”

“He said…” Freddie looks at Brian’s familiar, lovely face and remembers how full of fear he’d been, convinced that Brian would leave him for the first pretty face he saw. How Paul had fed that fear. He can see that now. “We saw you,” he explains, “after a concert. Some girls were flirting with you, and Paul said—he said—” It hurts, even now, but he manages to get it out: “He said you’d been going with groupies after our concerts, while I wasn’t looking, because you were sick of me. He said it was only a matter of time before you left me for good because you’d want to get married to one of them, have kids. I couldn’t… I couldn’t g-give you that.”

Brian’s face is white, and he takes a couple of deep breaths before he speaks. “Freddie,” he begins, and has to start again. “Freddie, I hope you know now that none of that is true.”

“I can’t give you children,” Freddie points out.

“The cats don’t count?”

In spite of himself, Freddie smiles, briefly. “They’re—oh, hush, darling!” Then he sobers up, looking seriously into Brian’s eyes. “You can get so much  _ more _ with a woman, Bri,” he whispers. “I’m just… I’m just  _ me _ . Silly and dramatic and—and I can’t cook, and I’ll spend all our money on stupid things, and I worry a-all the time, and—you can do  _ better _ , Bri—”

“Better than you?” Brian says. “How? When  _ you’re _ all I want, how can I possibly do better?”

Biting his lip, fighting back tears, Freddie buries his face in Brian’s throat. “I don’t know  _ why _ ,” he says, so quietly he’s not sure Brian hears him.

But then Brian replies, “Because I love you. What other reason do I need?”

And he knows he did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We got to write some nice comments for a change this time! So much more fun that writing for the haters.
> 
> You all, of course, always write such nice comments, because you are sweethearts. Thank you so much for all your support!


	27. Chapter 27

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things do get better.

“And this one’s lemon,” Brian explains, handing Freddie yet another little plate. “The frosting is organic raspberry. It’s a lighter option, less sweet.”

Freddie could use a lighter option right now; he’s tried so many cakes that he thinks he might actually throw up. He still takes the plate from Brian gamely, though, because Brian planned out the cake tasting, and he obviously worked so hard on it, and Freddie loves him so much…

He cuts off a bite of the new cake (delightfully yellow and pale pink) with the provided fork and takes a bite. “Oh, that’s lovely,” he says, surprised. He can’t help sneaking another little nibble when he thinks the bakery’s assistant isn’t looking.

“I thought it might be too,” Brian says, clearly pleased. He marks something down on the little papers he’s drawn up—a score sheet, perhaps—and then takes the plate from Freddie to set it aside. He smiles at Freddie, then leans in and kisses him.

Blushing, Freddie looks to his knees. “What was that for?”

“You had crumbs around your mouth.” Brian tips his face back up with his fingers to kiss him again. “And I love you.”

Freddie kisses him back, squeezing his eyes shut around happy tears. For the moment, he doesn’t even care if the assistant sees, or if he’s taking a picture with his phone. He has a lot of chances, because Brian kisses Freddie for quite some time, and then leans their foreheads together, his hand resting on the back of Freddie’s neck. When Freddie can look at him again he discovers, to his shock, that Brian is in tears too.

“Darling?” He reaches up to trace the line of Brian’s jaw. “Are you all right?”

Brian nods, not pulling away in the slightest. “I am,” he whispers, “I am—I’m better than all right, Freddie, I’m… I’m  _ happy _ . I’m so fucking happy to be here with you. You’re smiling and we’re here, together, picking out a wedding cake.” He swallows and a tear slips free. “I’m so in love with you, Freddie.”

When Freddie looks at Brian, held in his comforting arms, he feels happier than ever too. He’s been wishing for something like this for so long. He’s always been happy with Brian, happier than with anyone, but this is different. This is more than happiness that he feels, he feels more than love for Brian. This is different than when he was in love with Brian secretly, this is different than when they had their first kiss. This feels like it’s forever, and it does scare Freddie sometimes—more than sometimes—that this is just stupid hope, just him being blind, but right now, he doesn’t want to doubt it, he lets himself believe it. And it makes him want to cry even more. 

He wraps his arms around Brian’s torso and his heart beats even louder when Brian holds him tight. “I’m so in love with you too, Bri,” Freddie croaks, choked up by tears and happiness. He plays with the ring on his finger, something he does when he’s anxious, but also when he’s happy, when he’s so happy he can’t believe this is happening, that he’s going to marry the love of his life when only weeks ago he was in Munich, thinking he’d never get to have Brian hold him again, when he thought he would never be able to come back to London, to face his band mates, his love that wasn’t even  _ his _ anymore, when he thought his life would never be bright and happy again, that it would never feel worth living again. 

“I’m so lucky to have you, baby,” Brian whispers in his ear, before getting Freddie only slightly away from him and kissing his brow. He wipes away fallen tears, and both of them are happy that they’re good tears, finally. This is what they’ve wanted for months, and they finally got it, even if Freddie still doesn’t think this is what he deserves. He’ll realise it someday, and Brian promises to himself that he’ll make sure it happens, even if it takes the rest of his life.

Phoebe calls when they’re halfway back home. “Your parents are here,” he tells Freddie, “I had to let them in—they refused to leave. They’re in the sitting room right now, talking quite happily to Joe.”

This isn’t what Freddie wanted to come home too. He was wishing for a quiet rest of the day with Brian, probably being lazy, watching a movie on the couch, or having sex, not that he would have told Brian that. He’s happy, and it’s surely going to get ruined now. It’s his parents, it’s his father, who Brian practically yelled at the last time they saw each other; it’s his mother, who made him feel guilty for living his life every time they saw each other with her sad smiles. He just thought he could have a nice, calm night, with no anxiety involved. Of course he can’t. 

“Oh. I—I see,” he stammers. “I’ll let Brian know, I’ll—just give them refreshments, darling, we’re not far away—”

“Joe has them well supplied, just thought we ought to warn you…”

“Yes, Phoebe, thank you,” Freddie says through numb lips. He hangs up and tells Brian, who’s looking at him curiously, “My parents are waiting for us.”

Brian actually curses, slamming a palm down on the steering wheel. “What do they want  _ now? _ ”

“I don’t know, darling, they just showed up—”

“If they’re here to talk down to you again, I swear to god—”

“I know, Bri,” Freddie says, talking over him. “I  _ know _ , all right? But they’re my mum and dad, I can’t just—” He swallows, hard. “I can’t just cut them out of my life.”

Brian visibly softens. He reaches over to take Freddie’s hand. “I’ll be there with you the whole time, if you want me to be.”

Dear, lovely Brian. Freddie brings his hand up to his mouth, kisses his knuckles. “Thank you,” he says softly, “but I think I need to face them on my own.”

Brian’s face suggests he disagrees, but he doesn’t say anything, and when they arrive at the house and park behind Freddie’s parents’ car, he dutifully stays in the kitchen with an anxious Phoebe instead of following Freddie into the sitting room, where Bomi and Jer are still holding Joe captive. The three of them are talking over a gardening magazine that Freddie had left out and look up simultaneously at his entrance.

Immediately, Joe shoots to his feet, relief in his eyes. “Let me get you some more tea,” he says, and just about flees the room. Freddie doesn’t blame him.

There’s a long, tense moment of silence, Freddie looking at his parents and his parents looking back, and then his mother gets to her feet and approaches, putting on her best smile. “You look well,” she says, reaching out to take his hands. “So very happy. Doesn’t he?”

Bomi, still seated, doesn’t reply, but he does nod.

“Thank you,” Freddie says, uncertainly. What are they doing here? Why are they commenting on how happy he looks when the last time they were here—

“We’re sorry to come without telling you.” Jer squeezes his hands and leads him over to the sofa, tugging him down to sit between her and his father. “But your father and I—well. We wanted to apologize for how we responded to news of your engagement, Far—Freddie.”

Freddie blinks at her, his mouth slightly open in shock. He glances at his father, and Bomi does not disagree with what she’s saying. “What?” he says finally.

“Your happiness is really what matters most to us,” she says. “Isn’t that right, dear?” she adds pointedly, looking to Bomi.

“You do look much better recently,” Bomi says gruffly. “If this is truly what you want… Freddie, then we will give our consent.”

Freddie doesn’t know what to say, what to do, if he should jump into their arms, or run away realising this is just a bad joke. But his feet are rooted into place, because he’s shocked, and he figures he has the right to be shocked! This isn’t what he expected, especially after the talk he had with his father only a little while ago, after the words he said that still make Freddie’s heart tighten and that often do when he falls asleep at night. 

And now they’re telling him that they just want him happy, that they give him their  _ consent.  _ (Like not having it stopped him before.) He’s still sceptical, because this is so sudden, because his parents have been disapproving of everything he’s done probably since he’s been born and now they suddenly accept him. Freddie’s worried mind wonders if they’re here for money, but he wipes that thought away as soon as it appears. He’s being ridiculous, they’ve never asked for  _ anything _ like that before, and somehow, they almost seem sincere, his mom’s smile looks honest. And Freddie wants to believe it, because that’s all he’s ever wanted for all his life, just an ounce of acceptance from his parents, just proof that he’s not so abnormal that even his own parents can’t love him. 

“I do want this,” he says cautiously. “Truly. This is who I am, Papa.”

Bomi looks away—Freddie’s entire being tightens—and then his father’s eyes return to him. Perhaps he’s making himself, perhaps he’s forcing himself to look upon all the ways Freddie is wrong, but it’s still… it’s  _ something _ . It’s more than he’s ever had before.

“We just want you to be happy, Freddie,” Jer insists. She pats Freddie’s leg with her small hands, her own gaze intent on his face. “You’re our son.”

Whether they mean it or not suddenly doesn’t matter. Freddie’s in tears, dragging a shaking hand through his hair, fighting to control himself, because even if they’re pretending—even if they’re lying—this is all he’s ever wanted from them, and to have it, so suddenly—

“Oh, sweetheart,” his mother says, and tugs him down into her embrace, resting his head on her shoulder as he sobs. He clings to her as tightly as he dares, shaking. How childish he’s being—but still, he can’t stop. He’s in his mother’s arms, and for the first time in his life, he feels something like accepted.

When his tears have slowed, Jer wipes his face with her sleeves, smiling at him, and kisses his forehead, just where Brian’s lips had been earlier that day, and that almost sets Freddie off again.

“Mama—” he says, choked.

“Shall we have tea with Brian too?” she asks. She runs her fingers through his hair, arranging it like she used to when he was very small. “We can’t stay too long but I’d like to know him a bit better, and I know your father feels the same way.”

So when Joe finally edges back into the room with the tea refill, they send him to get Brian, and Brian comes in wearing his Argumentative Face. He’s clearly expecting a fight, and his eyes only sharpen when he sees that Freddie has been crying, so Freddie holds out a hand to him.

“We were tasting cakes today,” he says, as much to Brian as his parents. “Weren’t we, Bri?”

Brian takes Freddie’s hand, lacing their fingers together pointedly. “Yes, and I think we decided on one in the end, didn’t we?”

“You should sit here,” Jer says, shifting on the couch and patting the cushion between her and Freddie. “Sit and tell us about your thesis. That other lovely young man mentioned something about it but he couldn’t give us any details. He said he just does the cooking.”

Looking just as surprised as Freddie feels, Brian takes his seat, putting an arm around Freddie and tugging him close. “Well…”

Later that night, Freddie gets a text from Kashmira.

[Kash]:  _ did mama and papa apologise to you yet? _

Freddie tips his head back against the headboard and sighs. He might have known.

[Freddie]:  _ did you have something to do with it? I wondered why they were suddenly so nice _

[Kash]:  _ they really do care about you _

[Kash]:  _ they just needed reminding _

[Kash]:  _ especially before the wedding, they’ll be so upset ten years from now when they finally get over themselves if they aren’t in the wedding pictures _

Brian pokes his head out of the bathroom. “Are you on Twitter again?”

“No. Kash made my parents apologize to us.”

Brian’s face does something complicated before smoothing out. “Is that a good or a bad thing?”

Freddie taps his nails against his phone case, thinking. “I suppose it’s good,” he says finally. “They need time to fully understand, I… I get that. And this is better than nothing.”

Abandoning his toothbrush, Brian comes to sit on the bed next to him, kissing him on the top of the head, then the tip of the nose, then the lips. Freddie can’t help laughing, even through the pang of disappointment inside him.

“What was that for?”

“You’re the sweetest man on the planet,” Brian says. “And I love you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a custom cinnamon roll place near oats that does a lemon-raspberry combo and it is pretty good, in her opinion! Just the right amount of sweet and tart.
> 
> Thank you all for your continued support of this story! We love and appreciate every one of you.


	28. Chapter 28

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pre-wedding jitters.

At first, Freddie thinks it’s the dark. The room is pitch black, the curtains closed, letting no light from the moon in. He doesn’t really like the dark, he never has, he used to always have his small light when he was a kid. It was always too dark at boarding school. 

Freddie shuffles in the bed and remembers, not feeling any warmth, that Brian isn’t there. He’d been avoiding going to bed all night, dreading the moment he’d be alone in the cold bed. He hates it, he hates not having Brian behind him, arms wrapped around his body. He’s always had difficulty falling asleep on his own. 

It reminds him too much of Munich. It reminds him of lonely and cold nights wondering if he’d ever get the chance to be held by Brian again, wondering if he could have done more, more to make Brian still want him. He worried during endless nights, sleepless, wondering if Brian shared his bed with someone else, if he was holding a woman—pretty, perfect like Freddie has never been—just like he held Freddie. Sometimes Paul was in the bed with him, knocked out from an orgasm, turned away from Freddie, stealing too many of the blankets, leaving Freddie to cry, feeling so dirty for all the things he’d done only hours before. He hated himself, hated the way his head worked, hated how needy he was, how annoying he was. Hated that he would never be enough for someone as great as Brian. 

He doesn’t like to remember those nights. 

To distract himself, because he knows he won’t be able to fall asleep soon, he unplugs his phone and opens it. He feels guilty just putting his thumb on the button, unlocking it. His heart beats quickly opening Twitter, like he’s expecting for someone to catch him in the act, or maybe it’s because he’s nervous of what he’ll see, of the words that will be said, that this time Brian won’t be able to convince Freddie they aren’t true. He isn’t here to do any of that. 

Tonight, with Brian elsewhere—the wedding’s tomorrow and they can be traditional in this if nothing else—his eyes are drawn to the worst comments, the ones that speak to the darkness in the room and in his chest.

_ ok taking bets: may leaves mercury at the altar for £20 _

_ lmao dude that’s not a bet that’s a certainty, he’ll take one look at donkey-face and run _

_ No way he’s sticking with that “‘til death do us part” lol _

_ nah he’ll marry him for the money then divorce hm later _

_ They’re celebrities, I’m sure they’ve signed prenups _

_ i think ur underestimating how desperate mercury is for this guy, he’ll pay 2 be married for a week _

_ u think he actually cares about may????? _

_ ya dude u seen how thirsty he is in concerts duh he wants that d like woah _

_ Look, the important thing is that I don’t think May’s going to stick it out _

_ It’s one thing to date a disaster like Mercury but something else entirely to MARRY him _

_ He won’t go through with it, trust me _

He won’t. He  _ won’t.  _ Oh god, he probably won’t! It’s not like Freddie’s never thought about it. He often did, hidden in Brian’s neck, wondering if he should say it, because he promised Brian, but Brian wouldn’t tell him he’d leave him at the altar. So he didn’t say anything and held onto Brian a bit tighter. 

This is Freddie’s worst nightmare, and somehow it doesn’t feel like it’s unlikely to happen. They’re probably right, like they’ve always been about everything. Brian probably doesn’t even want to marry him, he probably took pity, because he realised nobody else would love him and proposed to him, planning to not even come to the wedding. 

It’ll hurt, Freddie’s sure of it, in fact he knows it, because his stomach is already churning at the thought, at the image of Brian not there, of him walking down the aisle, finally looking up to realise Brian hasn’t come, that nobody came. He doesn’t even want to go anymore, because right now he can imagine that Brian is in love with him, he can think of the last time he saw Brian, how he held him for a while before leaving, he prefers to live with the memory of Brian loving him instead of an image of empty seats and an empty aisle. 

He doesn’t want it to end yet. 

**harry4832:**

_ as if anyone would want to marry you _

**harry4832:**

_ just kill yourself and get it over with, spare yourself the disappointment _

Freddie’s had enough when tears start rolling down his face, when this feels so much like Munich, when it feels  _ too much _ like Munich. He can’t bear this, he can’t bear the pain of what he knows is true but always tries to convince himself isn’t. He just wants Brian, he needs him. 

He wipes away as many tears as possible and, even if he hates himself for it, for being so clingy, he calls Brian, because he doesn’t know if he’ll ever want to get up again otherwise.

Brian picks up right away. “Hello, Freddie,” he says, his voice warm and familiar in Freddie’s ear. “And how are you doing tonight, my husband-to-be?” 

Despite himself, Freddie smiles—even laughs a little, a wet, pathetic sound. “Oh. I’m—I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not—don’t lie to me, Freddie, please.” There’s shifting on Brian’s end of the line, like Freddie’s made him nervous, and he says, “Turn on your camera, love, let me talk to you properly.”

“But—” Freddie whispers. “What about tradition?”

“Fuck tradition,” Brian says firmly. “I want to see you. Besides, I’m at John’s, that’s plenty traditional for us. Let me talk to you, baby, please.”

And if this is going to be one of their last nights together, and with them so far apart—well, Freddie wants to see him too. Wiping his face again, he turns on his camera, and there’s Brian, also lying in bed. His face is all lit up by the light from the screen, shining in his eyes and dark, unkept curls. He looks soft and warm and sleepy and Freddie wants to curl up against him more than anything.

“There you are,” Brian says softly. “Tell me what’s wrong, love. Why are you crying?”

Freddie gulps back tears, struggling to speak, and finally forces out: “It’s—it’s everyone.”

When he can’t go on, Brian prompts, “Everyone? The people on social media, you mean?”

Ashamed, Freddie nods. “Y-you’ll leave me,” he says in a rush. “You’ll l-leave me a-at the altar a-and—I just—I just w-want to m-m- _ marry _ you, I—”

“Freddie,” Brian interrupts, gently but firmly. “Love. Listen to me.”

Freddie stops talking; sniffling, hiccuping, he goes back to wiping at his face. He doesn’t know how Brian can bear to keep looking at him when he’s like this—how Brian can bear to  _ be _ with him when he’s  _ always _ like this.

“There’s no way I’m going to leave you at the altar tomorrow,” Brian says now, meeting Freddie’s eyes through the phone. “All right? I asked you to marry me and I’ll be standing there waiting for you. My eyes will be on the doors, looking for you, and I’m not going anywhere until you’ve joined me. Do you hear me? We  _ are _ getting married tomorrow because I want to call you  _ mine _ for the rest of our lives.”

“But—”

“No ‘but’s! You’ll be my husband by this time tomorrow night.” A sweet smile spreads across Brian’s face. “Imagine it, Freddie. We’ll be on our way to Japan for our honeymoon, sitting next to each other on the plane—as  _ husbands _ . I’ll tell the stewardess that you’re my husband and we’re going on our honeymoon. I’ll tell  _ everyone _ .”

“Brian,” Freddie protests, laughing through his tears.

“You can’t stop me,” Brian says, determined. “I’ve waited ten years to call you my husband. I’ll never get tired of saying it.” He smiles, and adds, “Just like I’ll never get tired of telling you how much I love you.”

“I love you too, Bri,” Freddie whispers.

“Lay the phone on the pillow next to you,” Brian instructs. “Close your eyes. I want you to really picture this. I’m going to describe our Japanese honeymoon to you, all right? So listen closely.”

And Freddie does, at least until he falls asleep, Brian’s soft voice in his ear.

  
  


The next morning, Freddie locks himself in the bathroom at the wedding venue.

He arrived with Phoebe, Joe, and Roger, got changed, and went to do his makeup before doubts seized him and he slammed the door in Phoebe’s face.

His whole body is aching with anxiety, his stomach clenched painfully. He doesn’t want to ever walk out those doors, he’s not sure he’ll even have the courage. He knows everyone’s waiting for him so the ceremony can start, but he can’t, he  _ can’t.  _ He’s scared, he’s scared of realising that Brian lied the night before. He wishes he could remember Brian’s words so he can convince himself that this is real, so he can play them back in his head over and over again, so he can get enough courage to come out, to walk to the altar, with courage, even if Brian’s not there. But he can’t remember what Brian’s told him, and he’s starting to wonder if any of this was real, if he dreamed of Brian telling him all those sweet things. 

He can’t come out, he’s not courageous enough, not brave enough to be able to handle all the disappointment, all the pain and feelings throwing themselves at him. 

But what if Brian  _ is  _ there, waiting for him? 

Then the rational part of Freddie’s mind takes over: Brian won’t be there. Why would he want to be there? Why would he waste his life on someone as fucked up as Freddie? 

Someone bangs on the door. Phoebe’s tried to coax him out four times so far, but Freddie ignored him. This, though, is someone else, and Freddie has a terrible feeling he knows exactly who it is.

“Freddie Mercury!” Roger thunders. He hammers on the door again, as though Freddie could have possibly not heard him. “Open this door right now!”

Freddie doesn’t respond. It’s harder to ignore Roger than Phoebe, though, so he retreats to the chair set in front of the vanity, staring tensely at his own reflection. God, how could Brian want to marry him? Even with a bit of makeup on he looks dreadful.

“ _ Freddie! _ ” More banging.

“Go  _ away _ , Roger!” Freddie shouts before he can stop himself. He covers his mouth with his hand, blinking back tears.

Roger tries the door handle and rattles it when it doesn’t turn. “Let me in, Freddie.”

“No,” Freddie says through his fingers.

“Let me in!”

“No!”

“Fine. Fine!” Roger does stop trying the knob, but he doesn’t leave. Instead, he says, a little calmer, “Freddie, you love Brian, don’t you?”

“Of  _ course _ I do! How could you even  _ suggest _ —”

“I’m  _ not _ suggesting—” Roger stops himself, sighing. “I’m just saying, Fred, he loves you as much as you love him. And he’s waiting out there for you right now.  _ Please _ come out? Please go to him?”

“But what if he’s not there?” Freddie blurts out.

“Of course he’s there, Freddie,” Roger says gently. “He’s always there for you. He’ll do whatever you ask him to, go wherever you want him to go—he  _ treasures _ you, mate. He’ll wait at that altar until doomsday if there’s the slightest chance you’ll show up to marry him, but I’d really prefer we just get this over with today. You two have been dancing around this for ten  _ fucking _ years, just be an old married couple already.”

“We’re not  _ old, _ ” Freddie says, offended despite himself.

“Well—”

“We’re  _ not! _ ”

“You’re the oldest in the band, mate, you and your gangly giraffe husband.” There’s a clear smile in Roger’s voice. “But I’ll take it back if you let me in. Or at least open this fucking door.”

Freddie dabs under his eyes, checking in the mirror to make sure that his makeup is still presentable. Only then does he open the door a crack, enough to let Roger inside.

“At last!” Roger says dramatically, and throws his arms around him, hugging him tightly. Freddie wants to cry all over again and hides his face in Roger’s shoulder. “You bastard,” he adds fondly. “Of course we wouldn’t get you down the aisle without a little fuss. Still—you ready to go now? Brian’s waiting for you.”

Freddie doesn’t feel ready at all, but he nods. “Yes,” he whispers. “I—I’m ready. For Brian.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Roger Taylor Is A Great Friend. We all deserve a Roger in our lives.
> 
> We're almost to the end now! Thank you so much again to all of you who have followed us on this journey.


End file.
